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ascertain Feast 

Soliia Solano 


G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

N^wYork & London 
JDjz Knickerbocker Press 



# 



Copyright, 1924 
by 

Solita Solano 


First printing, August, 1924 
Second printing, September, 1924 


1 « • 



Made in the United States of America 


OCT II 1924 







To 

BASTIAN 






















THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 















THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

I 

Miss Elliot's chair scraped the concrete floor. 
“Is that all, Mr. Geer?” 

Daniel blinked at the window and turned. “No.” 
She must be in a hurry to get away. Probably has 
an engagement for dinner. Cold cream, rouge and a 
hot iron waiting at home. He looked at her sleek 
brown head, bent again over her book, a poised 
pencil waiting. “What was the last paragraph, 
please ?” 

Without raising her eyes she translated her hiero¬ 
glyphs tonelessly, challengingly: “ ‘While I am im¬ 
pressed with your work, it is impossible to consider 
you at present as our own Mr. Warren’s contract 
has a year more to run and will be renewed if he 
wishes.’ ” She waited again, her pencil quivering. 

Daniel looked at her mouth. Too bad she isn’t 
pretty. Anyway I don’t like them when they draw 
in their mouths that way. Prunes and prisms char¬ 
acter. Like that girl in Newark who kept smiling 
and smiling and then squealed, “Oh, don’t, Mr. 


3 


4 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Geer!” Now she’s frowning because I don’t finish. 
“If you are in the city, however, drop in and we will 
talk. Very truly yours. I think that covers it. 
Thank you, Miss Elliot.” 

He turned back to his desk. Slapping her note¬ 
book together and scraping her chair. How uncivil 
she is! Always on the defensive. She needn’t act 
that way for my benefit. Her advances and retreats 
don’t interest me. If she were prettier I’d take her 
out. ... Feet at the door. Someone to annoy me. 

“Mr. Edmunds to see you, Mr. Geer.” 

Daniel looked up at the youngest office boy, too 
small for his coat, and took the afternoon papers he 
held out. “Does he know I’m here?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Send him in. And wash your hands.” He 
pushed away his clippings, and glanced at the head¬ 
lines. Black stupefying annunciations. Domestic 
tragedies, the pinchbeck hopes of governments, in¬ 
stitutional failures, information from eavesdrop¬ 
pers, the crambe repetita of court decisions, pitfalls 
from press-agents, the vagaries of Jupiter Pluvius 
and Old Sol and the uncovering of bones under 
ancient dolmens. All focused by the lickerish presses 
and presented every hour as a symptom of civiliza¬ 
tion. 

He lighted a cigarette. Must be Bob’s day off. 
I always took Thursday and he had Friday. Now 
I’m here and he’s still stuck back there. He’ll always 
be an assistant. Or go on the copy desk. Most of 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


5 


them end that way, poor old hacks, sharpening pen¬ 
cils, packing tobacco into their pipes, shades on 
their eyes. “I think this is a first page story, sir.” 
“Yes, you would think that. Cut it to two sticks— 
page five.” The others snicker at this humiliation. 
Their turn next. Bob’s probably hoping I’ll give 
him something here. Not much. He’d be too 
familiar. Calling me Dan and walking in here when¬ 
ever he felt like it. 

“Hello, Dan!” 

Daniel turned in his chair. “Come on in. How’s 
everything in Jersey? Paper still coming out?” 

Edmunds crossed the room and they shook hands. 

“Sure. Do you think we’ve closed up because 
you left? How do you figure that out?” He sat 
down and took a cigarette from Daniel’s box. 
“Pretty soft here, Dan. You’re in luck. Some 
difference between the island of Manhattan and the 
village of Newark, eh? Boys all sent regards.” 

“Thanks. Your day off, isn’t it? Do you want 
to have dinner with me? Say a plank steak at 
Whyte’s. I might take an extra hour tonight.” 

Edmunds leaned back and laughed, the smoke in¬ 
dicating each outward breath. “What’s struck 
you?” he said. “Has New York made you loosen 
up ? But, of course, you’re making big money now.” 

Daniel reddened. “I’ve always had responsibili¬ 
ties,” he said. “My parents-” 

“They haven’t cost you much,” Edmunds cut in. 
“That little flat—you all lived there on $25 a week. 



6 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Oh, well, once in a hundred years comes along a 
newspaper man like you. The rest of us haven’t a 
nickel the Monday after payday. More power to 
you.” He lifted himself from the chair and walked 
to the window. 

Daniel inhaled deeply and crushed the fire from 
his cigarette. Crude, crude. No manners, no sense. 
Especially about the future. He’ll never get any¬ 
where with those spendthrift ideas. The artistic 
temperament without any art. Despising the busi¬ 
ness man but living from him. Thinking it a dis¬ 
grace to the cult to provide for the future but always 
coming around with, “Could you let me have ten 
dollars till next week ?” Sometimes they save on the 
sly—like Summers. Caught with a check book. 
Blushing and denying it was his with the office 
howling him down for a tightwad. 

“What about that steak, Bob?” If I don’t ask 
him again he’ll think I’m offended. Five dollars 
ought to do it. Maybe six. I haven’t spent much 
this week. I can afford it. 

“I can’t tonight—I brought Effie along,” said 
Edmunds. “Say, where do you live now?” 

“Uptown. I found a small apartment.” 

“You going to bring the old folks over?” 

Daniel frowned and blinked at the smoke from 
his cigarette. “They’re better off where they are. 
They didn’t want to come anyway.” 

“You’ll be lonesome.” 

“No time for that. I’m here every night till all 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


7 

hours. Had to learn the plant from top to bottom, 
you know.” 

Edmunds nodded and looked out of the window. 

“The powers are already watching for the circu¬ 
lation to go up. But it’s much too soon. I haven’t 
had time to change the staff yet,” Daniel went on. 

Edmunds did not comment and Daniel looked at 
his eyes, set in rims of fat. Poor Bob! He sees my 
great active future while he stays in the old rut. 
Well, that’s life. Some of us live purposelessly— 
ex commodo —weaving peacefully in our cages. 
Others are driven on by a mysterious energy be¬ 
gotten, they say now, by our glands. When these 
are very active they result in some marvel of genius 
or great energy—Napoleon, Dumas, Hadrian, 
Shakespeare, Cicero, Thomas Aquinas, Casanova, 
old Atlas. My glands secrete enough to give me am¬ 
bition and vigor. Bob’s are dessicated shreds. 

“So it’s still Effie. Are you going to marry her?” 

“I guess so,” said Edmunds, returning to his 
chair. “Might as well. We’re used to each other. 
How about you? Still stalking what’s out of your 
reach? You never want what you can have. Better 
get married.” 

“Not I,” said Daniel. “No marriage for me. No 
steady gold digger in my pockets. Nor no re¬ 
spectable Wednesday-evening-and-Sunday-afternoon 
girl either. Women want too much attention. I 
have no time for sentimental flower-sending and 
cooings over the telephone a dozen times a day. 


8 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


That’s what women like. They’re swamps of senti¬ 
mentality. But when you get them to the point they 
say, ‘Oh, don’t, Mr. Geer or Mr. Smith or Mr. 
Jones!’ Different name, same objection.” 

“You’ll change your tune when you meet the right 
girl,” said Edmunds. 

Daniel’s mouth curled down in a thin line. “Don’t 
you think I’ve met all kinds ? Girl at my university, 
digging into uncial manuscripts by day and kissing 
me for a box of candy by night. Flirtatious wait¬ 
resses smelling of soup. Skinny highbrows slipping 
in here like panthers with poetry or lectures on Gi¬ 
otto. Girl reporters in this office with small volumes 
of the minor poets in their desks and three sticks of 
‘An old hermit known as Cagey Williams was found 
dead yesterday in a vacant lot in Brooklyn’ on their 
typewriters.” 

“I saw some girls out there while I was waiting. 
Won’t any of them do?” 

“No. One is too thin, one is snub-nosed and the 
heavy blonde would want the city editor’s job if I 
so much as glanced at her exaggerated ankles.” 

“Say, you’re too darned critical,” Edmunds burst 
out. “You’re no oil painting yourself when it comes 
to looks.” He leaned forward, smiling with spiteful 
eyes and laid a hand on the edge of the desk. His 
malice was like a mirror held up before Daniel to 
reflect a high shiny forehead, pale eyes, persistent 
nose and straight tight mouth. 

“I suppose you think I want to look like a Greek 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


9 


dancer or an Italian barber,” Daniel said. He saw 
the puffy fingers that were grasping the edge of his 
desk in an envious passing contact with success. 
Then he smiled in tolerant ascendency. 

“Don’t forget that beauty is gone like a puff of 
wind. The Nile swallowed Antinous, the ephebe. 
And as for tearful Giton-” 

“If you’re going to begin one of your lectures on 
the great unknown dead, I’m off,” said Edmunds. 
“But first let a poor relation gather a few crumbs.” 

He took up the box of cigarettes and transferred 
four to his leather case. Daniel stood up, his man¬ 
ner suddenly stiff. Damned cheek talking to me as 
he does and taking my cigarettes. He won’t get in 
here again in a hurry. 

“Thanks, old pal,” said Edmunds. “Well, so long. 
I’ll give your regards to the boys.” 

“Yes, of course, the boys. And Effie, too. Good¬ 
bye.” 

He turned to his desk and drew out his sched¬ 
ule. Trainer will be champing to get in here. Prob¬ 
ably waiting outside for Bob to go. Five o’clock and 
dark enough for six. Soft dark like smoke or 
velvet. Yielding eastern dark—a permeating black¬ 
ness scented with ylang-ylang. It disperses at dawn 
for you to see the face beneath the veil, the pattern 
on which you lie and the minarets against the lift¬ 
ing mists. Funny how we still believe in the magic 
of the east. Neither the literacy statistics nor tales 
of vermin destroy its romance. I’ll go see for my- 



IO THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

self one day. Good old U.S.A. currency will throw 
back many a veil. Istambol is finished—but perhaps 
Persia- 

'‘Ready, Mr. Geer? I waited for your caller to 
&>” 

Daniel looked up unsmilingly at Trainer’s lined 
unshaven face and nodded. “Sit down. Will you 
smoke ?” 

“I don’t mind.” 

Daniel held out the cigarettes with studied for¬ 
mality. I wish he’d wear a coat in the office. Old 
shirtsleeves school. I can guess how he hates me 
for a neophyte. Also for my clean linen. The 
fourth day he’s worn that green striped shirt. 
I suppose it doesn’t touch his skin—only the arms. 
Foreigners think it’s effeminate to wear anything un¬ 
derneath. That Irish boy at the university. Flaherty 
—Flannigan. From Dublin. His father said, “Just 
let me catch you wearing underdrawers like those 
damned English boys. I’ll take them off you and 
give you a good hiding.” He wore his shirttails 
tucked about him the first semester. 

“Two column spread on Near East crisis leads the 
paper. Box the two-headed horse at Buffalo. Pub¬ 
lic always interested in monstrosities. Follow-up 
story on Long Island murder with one column 
cut of fair guiltless one. Ireland back on the first 
page again. The U.P. story. Miss Delmar’s inter¬ 
view with Dr. Straight on free love—spicy stuff. 
Miner left million by rich uncle in New Guinea. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


ii 


Won’t take it. Socialist. Let’s see. What’s new 
in Germany?” 

The telephone rang. Daniel caught up the re¬ 
ceiver. 

“Hello.” 

“Mr. Geer?” 

“Speaking.” 

“This is Rufus Edwards.” 

“How are you, Dr. Edwards?” 

“I want to send a young woman to see you. An 
old friend. You might give her something to do 
down there—or at any rate, some advice.” 

“Of course, I’ll be delighted to see her. Will you 
ask her to come in tomorrow—say about noon. 
What is the name ?” 

“Amy Fiske. Thank you, Mr. Geer, a great 
favor—By the way, can you dine with me some 
night next week? How about Thursday?” 

“Thank you, that would be fine. Thursday, then 

_ ft 

“About eight. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye.” Damned old bore. Speak a civil 
word and they take advantage. Now I’ll have to 
see that girl and waste an hour of my time hearing 
some hard luck story or the panting ambition of a 
recent graduate from a school of journalism. 
Damned inconsiderate of Old Rufus and I’d like to 
tell him so. I’ll get Miss Elliot to help me out. 
Call me to a conference after five minutes. And 
write a note for me about Thursday. “Regret press 


12 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


of work at the office will deprive me of the great 
pleasure—” Wish Trainer would keep his feet 
still. Paws like an ungulate. He could do that 
schedule in his sleep. Isn’t waiting for me. No 
imagination but good all around man. Trembling 
in his boots the day I came in here. They all were. 
Knew I had the power to clear everybody out. 
That will come as I find new writers. Young blood. 
That’s what I want. Vivid style, humor. 

“Great cartoon that, Mr. Geer,” said Trainer, 
waving a hand at a ragged square of cardboard on 
the desk. “Warren certainly puts across some 
wonders.” 

“Um—he’s not stale yet,” said Daniel. “But as 
soon as he begins to let up I have another man in 
mind. Warren had better keep on his toes.” 

“Oh,” said Trainer, his eyebrows lifting. Just 
as well to let him pass the word about that I expect 
their best every day. No coddling in this office. 
The best they’ve got or out they go. 

“I’ll get after the sporting department next week,” 
said Daniel. “We need a new writer in there. Per¬ 
haps Ormand-” 

Trainer got to his feet and looked at Daniel with 
shocked eyes. “Ormand? Ormand, Mr. Geer? 
He’s never even seen a game of tennis. Poker and 
pinochle are about his speed.” 

“He’ll learn the ropes in no time. He has what 
we need—a humorous touch and lots of speed. 
McPhale can watch his copy for breaks.” 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


13 


Trainer shook his head and drew down the stained 
corners of his mouth in a bitter curve as he started 
for the door. 

Daniel picked up the evening papers. That old 
fogy hates new methods. He must know his day 
is nearly done. Hear he keeps a bottle in his desk. 
So does Sanderson. Poor devils, it consoles them. 
They need it at that age. The young have less ex¬ 
cuse. Let the prohibitionists guard the tender gullets 
and leave the leather-throats free to guzzle. Not 
easy to learn to drink. It takes patience and train¬ 
ing to swallow and keep it. The very young need 
coercion. Quite painful for them. Like those little 
girls in the pension in Paris who were always crying 
for milk. That’s the other extreme of prohibition. 
Well, there’s nothing like wine for age and grief. 
An unequaled panacea for life when it’s too late for 
love—or love’s substitute. And as for that- 

He looked at his watch. Now for the fruit with 
the bitter core. Out to join the hunt with the rest 
of mankind—the only game in which any man can 
win who has the price. The preliminary elbow-touch 
and chin-chuckings. Don’t notice if there’s a cast 
in the eye or an irregularity of gait. Nature doesn’t 
bait her trap with the finest for a mere game of hide- 
and-seek. The choice morsels are reserved for the 
feasts of Canaan. Let me see. Get appointment and 
dinner by eight. Away from here by twelve. Will 
she wait ? Or find a better bargain before my tryst ? 
Faithful till midnight. Till death, they used to sing, 



14 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


the troubadours. Saccharine romanticism surviving 
all ages. The madrigals and sonnets of the nine¬ 
teen-twenties written in terms of this moronic day 
in Tin-Pan Alley. Takes a jazz band nowadays to 
put them across. Then romance does a flourishing 
business. “Give me sixty percent royalties or I’ll 
take my thirty heart-throbs a month to another pub¬ 
lisher. What do you think I work for anyway— 
love ?” Not much you don’t, young Abraham Shake¬ 
speare. And quite right you are, my boy. We are 
past the sentimental seventeenth century. 

“Oh, never say that I was false of heart, 

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.” 

A weak recrudescence of the Virgin-worshipping 
middle ages when her Gothic fingers were in Euro¬ 
pean skies. Beauty without truth gives place to 
truth without beauty. A fleche exchanged for a 
Crookes tube. Good enough. A scientist is worth 
a hundred puling poets. 

Daniel thrust an arm into his overcoat and reached 
for his hat. Half way to the door he went back for 
his cigarettes. He pulled the lid of his desk down 
half way, patted a pile of clippings into order and 
snapped off the light. Frowning, he threw back his 
shoulders and strode through the door into the 
bright, clicking city room. Without turning his 
head he saw the rows of desks and bent heads, the 
litter of newspapers, the dark door of the “morgue.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


15 


An odor of wet ink arose from the stairs that led to 
the composing room. He breathed it with spread 
nostrils. As sweet as flesh to me. Black flesh? I 
don’t know. Ask Loti, Gaugin and the Father of 
his Country. 

“Mr. Geer! Will you sign your letters before you 
go?” 

Daniel stopped and looked down at Miss Elliot. 
Nice eyes. Hazel with goldish tints and glints. She 
isn’t so bad when she lets her mouth alone. 

“No. Leave them on my desk. Goodnight.” 

He passed from the fulgid confusion into the 
grayness of the corridor. 


II 


The night outside was a black gulf hung with 
lights. Daniel's heels came down with regular 
clicks as if he listened to martial sounds. He avoided 
the eager-eyed crowd aiming for the subway in the 
square and struck across to a calmer corner. There 
he turned south and faced the giant containers of the 
city’s commerce. 

He walked slowly, his eyes on the high horizon of 
masonry. They loom up to block out the stars and 
their ragged outline proclaims the daring and power 
of puny-limbed man —homo sapiens. He no longer 
has an instinct to raise something for the sake of 
having it last beyond his life. The Egyptians’ 
tombs! They tried to fight the oblivion of death 
by monuments at which men coming after would 
gaze astonished and murmur in perpetuity a name 
thus preserved in granite glory. But men have built 
all that ahead of me for rentals. They have sold 
their egos, already emasculated by Christianity, for 
an enormous annual income. 

He was passing a lighted shop. A girl stood at 
the window. He curved in towards her. Fastidious 
profile. What does she stare at? Beads and brace¬ 
lets spread and hung for just such hungry eyes. 

16 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


17 


He stood at her side. She glanced up, startled, 
and received his full gaze. After a moment she 
bent her head. He did not move. She put up her 
hand and pulled down her hat with a timid gesture. 
He stepped back and looked at the glitter of gold 
and coral behind the glass. What pitiful eyes! 
Little drowned flowers. Eve seen them before. 
Ruth’s eyes like that the day I stoned her kitten. 
How long ago? Twenty years. Eheu fugaces, 
Postume! Her eyes faded now and lined by Andrew 
and the three fruits—sour little devils. But this 
girl’s eyes enough like Ruth’s to be a restraint. She’s 
turning. Oh, let her go. Anyway, she can’t be. 
Not with those fresh eyes. 

He swung on his heel and walked away. Ruth 
and my unpleasant childhood. She weak and sensi¬ 
tive, I rough and moody. “See how nicely your 
sister behaves in church.” “Your sister gets up in 
the morning when she is called.” “Your sister never 
forgets to wash her hands.” She used to cry when 
I was whipped and bring me cookies afterward. 
Wouldn’t steal them for herself. A born comforter. 
The weak serving the strong. She doesn’t like to 
see me now. Thinks my ideas for the children will 
undermine sweet sickening home influence. Mother¬ 
hood handled well only in Sparta. Leave the babies 
in the rain all night. Take those that survive away 
from pap and cooings and make them fit for life. 
That would solve the overpopulation problem with¬ 
out help from old Malthus. I’d like to write a book 


18 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

on motherhood. Part one: How to be intelligent 
though a mother. Part two: Taking the drool out 
of maternity. Part three: Painless extraction of 
sentimentality. Part four: The ferine mother ver¬ 
sus the mother evolved. Part five: Motherhood’s 
coming of age. Part six: They desert you at twenty, 
why not do it first ? 

A man, stepping from a doorway, collided with 
him. 

“Excuse me. Didn’t see you coming.” 

Daniel pulled his hat back in place, standing in 
the light from a row of plate glass windows. Just 
inside a man stiffly wrapped in white threw limp 
cakes into the air and caught them on a plate. Be¬ 
hind him the rows of tables were half filled by early 
diners. A girl sat alone near the door. She had 
taken off her hat and her clipped hair fell about 
forehead and ears, making stubby black points 
against her skin. Her mouth was full-blown and 
scarlet. 

Daniel stood staring. Little blackbird. Is that 
rouge on her mouth? She has a bold black eye 
and I think it’s fixed on me. She hasn’t blinked 
since I’ve been looking at her. Well, there’ll be no 
prettier one on the auction block tonight so let us 
get on with the matter. Let us enter and dine 
behind the vaudeville act in the window. 

He passed the girl’s table and hung up his hat 
and overcoat on a hook, pausing to read the restau¬ 
rant’s repudiation of responsibility for empty gar- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


19 


ments. He dried his sweating palms and replaced 
his handkerchief ceremoniously. Nerves, nerves. 
Too much pressure on me. It’s harder to play than 
to work. Now for the role of conquering male. I 
would have done it better ten thousand years ago. 
As it is, I wield a newspaper in my hand instead of 
a club as I approach those mysterious soft allure¬ 
ments. Without prescience one would not only be 
tormented but destroyed in that pleasant baited 
morass. Courage, I go to crook the knee to Eros, 
the iconoclast. 

The girl looked across at him with quick indif¬ 
ferent eyes as he sat down. Then as if unaware of 
his scrutiny across the narrow whiteness between 
them, she watched the street, her lazy eyelids droop¬ 
ing, recovering, drooping. I was right. Her mouth 
is rouged. But rouge on a background as red as 
itself. She keeps her eyes away. Some burly type 
would please her better than I, knowing the ap¬ 
proach. Yet I have in my pocket that which will 
release interest, smiles, flutterings—the parade of 
her graces. Touch the currency button. Fiat lux . 
Where’s the menu? 

He reached toward the girl as a waitress with 
stained hands put down a tray and served dishes 
from it with the small rapid gestures with which one 
deals a pack of cards. She passed to Daniel’s side 
and bent for his order. 

The girl began to eat, dipping successively into 
small dishes and chewing her food frankly. He 


20 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


opened his newspaper. By looking at the headlines 
he could see her face, a pale blur beyond his direct 
vision. Savage little type. She would go well in 
the Place Pigalle. With longer hair, a Goya. Some¬ 
thing like that Portuguese girl I found on the Quai 
d’Anjou. Dark down on her upper lip. One sees 
it often in France. Some like it. Others advocate a 
depilatory. I’m sure I don’t care. It’s neither an 
aphrodisiac nor a drawback to me. Certain tastes 
rejoice in a cast in the eye, a bizarre turn of counte¬ 
nance, a crooked back, Cezanne’s women, the poison¬ 
ous hauteur of old Florentine busts, Cranach’s false 
nudes. Of the ancients I choose never the chill 
calm of Greece but the exquisite lines of Nephretete, 
passionately lean, sweet-lipped, proudly ruling 
Egypt. Her dissipated dust now floats behind dis¬ 
tant curtains. Perhaps I alone in all the world 
mourn Nephretete tonight, sitting in vulgar glare 
and clatter, bent on a project that—Ah, she is star¬ 
ing at me. Thick lids insolent eyes. 

Daniel folded his newspaper and held it out. 
“Would you like to see this?” 

She hesitated. “Thanks.” 

He watched her open the paper. Satin unflushed 
cheeks. A flare to the nostrils. Looks healthy. She 
didn’t have much of a dinner. I suppose if someone 
else were paying for it she would order nine opulent 
courses. I used to hear about women being delicate 
eaters. I’ve never dined one yet that didn’t eat more 
than I. I wish I hadn’t given her that paper. She’ll 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


21 


read it all if only to annoy me. She knows I want 
to talk to her. So does every man she meets proba¬ 
bly. Old Bill McMahon used to say, “Let the 
pretty ones alone, boys, and pick the others. They’re 
fresher.” 

The girl looked across squarely. “I bet she killed 
him—that Mrs. Cramer down to Long Island.” 

“Very likely, judging from the evidence. But 
the jury-” 

“She done it all right, all right.” 

“Tell me. Would you kill someone if you were 
jealous? You look as if you would.” 

“Me? I dunno. I might if he was worth it.” 

The waitress placed his dinner before him and 
poked the menu into the girl’s hand. 

“Have something with me,” said Daniel. “Yes? 
Good. Bring some ice cream, please.” 

The girl stared at Daniel with cold puzzled eyes. 

“What do you do? I mean, do you work?” he 
asked. 

“Sure. Don’t you?” She raised the newspaper 
between their faces. 

Daniel took up his fork. Presently he put it 
down and dried the palms of his hands on his nap¬ 
kin. A touchy little devil. I’ll have to go slow. 
The chase in always a humiliation to me. Here I 
sit, eating a dinner I don’t want and trying to inter¬ 
est and placate a girl with a Neanderthalensis intel¬ 
ligence—all because the hour has struck. It’s 
degrading—appalling. No wonder those gaunt nar- 



22 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


row-templed ascetics fled to caves with ropes and 
nettles. Swish, sting, be off with your beckoning 
eyes. My flesh shall not be leman to you, iniquitous 
and unclean messenger of Satan. Peace, peace, 
while I save my soul and on with the flagellation. 
Nowadays you’d be dragged off for a lunatic. 

The waitress brought a plate of ice cream and the 
girl put down the paper. “You didn’t eat your din¬ 
ner,” she said. 

“I was thinking,” said Daniel. 

“Thinking never keeps me from eating.” She 
smiled slightly. 

“Perhaps you haven’t anything to worry about,” 
said Daniel. 

“Don’t you believe it.” Her voice took a higher 
note. “My mother’s sick and my sister’s just lost 
her job. That leaves me and the kid brother to make 
good. My father run off last year.” 

“What kind of job have you?” 

“What do you want to know for?” 

“Why—I—Excuse me. I only hoped you had a 
good one.” 

She lifted her shoulders and returned to her ice 
cream. Daniel watched her. Parents probably 
Italian. Even Greek. That’s why she evades a 
direct answer by moving her shoulders. She’s of¬ 
fended. Why? Perhaps because I don’t know how 
to talk to her. 

He swallowed some water to relieve the dryness 
in his throat. “You didn’t have a very good dinner 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


23 


tonight. Suppose you meet me when I get through 
at my office and we’ll have a little supper. Cold 
lobster or chicken—anything you like. And after¬ 
ward I’ll give you something to take home to your 
mother.” He tapped his breast pocket that she 
might understand. 

She studied him a moment before she replied. 
“What’s the idea ?” 

He hesitated. Damn her truculent air. Why 
can’t she be businesslike? I’m being as delicate as 
possible. Don’t tell me she hasn’t done this before. 
Not with that bold stare and paint on her mouth. 
Why did she talk to me if she wasn’t hoping for a 
good bargain? Everybody knows that some work¬ 
ing girls supplement their wages by going out occa¬ 
sionally. “You’re a pretty girl and I like you. Isn’t 
that enough?” Perhaps if I attack in my turn she 
will have more respect for me. If not I won’t waste 
my time persuading her. 

“How late would it be ?” 

“Midnight at least.” 

She shook her head. “I can’t. My mother won’t 
go to sleep till I get home.” 

“Why not go home now? Wait till she’s asleep 
and go out again. I used to manage that way when 
I lived at home.” 

“And come all the way back downtown ?” 

“No. I live in Eighty-First Street.” 

“Where are we going to eat?” 

Daniel looked directly into her eyes. “At my 


24 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


apartment. You can come there in a taxi. I’ll be 
waiting for you.” 

“Oh.” She considered something that seemed to 
amuse her. She began to smile. White shining 
teeth. Such a pretty little savage. I’m in luck. Her 
throat smooth and hard as marble. Shoulders nicely 
turned. My heart anticipates—beating, beating. 
She must like me a little. She hasn’t asked for any¬ 
thing. Usually they think they are about to tap a 
new vein and come running with pickaxes and dyna¬ 
mite. 

“All right. What’s the address?” She buttoned 
the collar of her cape about her throat and put on 
her hat. Daniel wrote on his card with a hand that 
shook and sweated. He passed it across the table' 
and slid her dinner check on top of his. 

“We’ll say half-past twelve then?” 

She nodded and leaned across to him. Soft eyes 
and the gleam of teeth. I can smell her hair. The 
procedure of the female. All retreats and claws 
until the moment she decides to capitulate. Then the 
contours are smooth over relaxed muscles. 

“What if you’re late? I’d be out in the cold with 
a taxi to pay for.” She stood and jerked on her 
gloves. 

“I’ll fix that,” said Daniel. His stained old wallet 
trembled in his fingers. She’s right, of course. A 
tie-up in the subway—an accident to the presses— 
I might be delayed an hour or more. Damn! Only 
five and ten dollar bills. Get change. “Just a mo- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


25 


ment,” he said. He laid a five dollar bill on the 
table while he folded his wallet. ‘Til get this 
changed for your taxi.” 

The girl reached over and swept up the bill, laugh¬ 
ing. She walked around to him. “See you later.” 
Her hand stroked his sleeve up and down. He 
looked at her mouth, the blood creeping up in his 
face. Still laughing, she went to the door with quick 
steps and passed into the street. 

The waitress came up to Daniel with a troubled 
face. “Is anything wrong, sir?” 

“No, no,” said Daniel. “Nothing.” He went to 
fetch his overcoat and put it on at the cashier’s desk. 
My little treasure, my little scented savage. Her 
fingers still penetrate me. The folds of her cape 
clung close about her slenderness. She must be new 
at it. Not like most of them. Asked for no guaran¬ 
tees. Really, she likes me, I think. She didn’t have 
to touch my arm. 

Outside Daniel stood bareheaded and looked at 
the sky. Sex isn’t always ugly after all. Sometimes 
a refuge from the prose and poetry of work, a per¬ 
fumed interlude without the pain of thinking. Per¬ 
haps I am not wise to force myself into such 
rigidities of habit. That girl—my little savage— 
I might see her often. But no. There would be 
an attachment—scenes—money for the sick moth¬ 
er— 

He put on his hat and began to walk. The night 
was as chill as a cavern. A wind blew through 



26 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


streets that were emptied each nightfall of their 
thousands as cities in other times were deserted 
when a plague descended. He smiled as he ploughed 
into the wind. Send Micky out for lobster or 
chicken. No, it’s absurd to spend money like that. 

Sandwiches would do. Yet I promised her-. 

Well, a chicken, then. Two dollars at a delicates¬ 
sen’s. And lettuce sandwiches—say, fifty cents. 
And a few drinks of sherry. Tell Micky to have the 
chicken packed in a box. I don’t want to carry a 
grease-smeared parcel. Out of the office at eleven- 
thirty. Home at twelve and half an hour to set the 
table and wash up. Must open sherry bottle. Tra, la, 
la! The first visitor to my apartment. I’ll tell her 
so. No. She might feel too important. Will you 
walk into my parlor said the spider to the—female 
spider. Oh, so willingly, kind sir. My prices vary 
accordingly to the quality of your web. Is it cotton 
or silk? I must know before I advance another 
centimeter. My little savage will say silk, I’m sure. 
And silk it is compared to her tenement. Enter the 
first visitor—woman. Exit the ascetic, his grey 
mantle streaked with purple at last. 

“Abstinence sows sand all over 
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair ” 

Sands of time, running, running. Time only an illu¬ 
sion, being one with space. In the year of an atom 
man’s second is not perceived but lasts through an 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


27 


eternity. And our eternity is but a flash in the life 
cycle of Canopus. The shivering weak cover their 
faces and flee back to the human bosom of their 
Creator with a capital C. He didn’t tell them any¬ 
thing so disquieting. Better heaven and hell than 
relativity. A man knows where he stands when he 
hears about harps and brimstone. He holds one 
and gets choked with the other. That’s reasonable. 
But tell him matter may be only a hole in the solid 
ether and he will shake a Bible at you. The number 
of Bible-shakers has fallen off, though, even in my 
time. Now a man is just as likely to say, “Let’s 
see you prove it to me.” Father is still shaking the 
Bible. But only at mother. He must miss the 
ferocious zest for prayer I inspired. The night he 
held me by my hair and prayed for my conversion. 
I felt anger and shame for him. Now that has 
faded into contempt. Honor thy father. An im¬ 
portant precept among Chinese and Jews. There’s 
small honor for parents among those that call them¬ 
selves after the beautiful megalomaniac of Nazareth. 
Only pity, mixed with diluted affection and irrita¬ 
tion. Blame sentimentality for that. When living 
gets soft the soul buds forth and the fruit is senti¬ 
ment, romance and havens for the unfit. Still some 
races left, however, that crack them on the head. 
Little corners of the earth where they don’t under¬ 
stand why we save them. One sect in India 
ostricises women after the menopause—roofs given 
only to the reproductive. Wonder what happens to 


28 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


the old men? Servants, I daresay, hunting in the 
heads of their children’s children. 

Daniel pushed through the swinging doors of his 
office building. A young woman with light curls 
under her hat was entering the elevator. He turned 
aside to the tobacconist established in the corridor 
and bought cigarettes. I’ll wait for the next ele¬ 
vator. She would talk to me about sending her to 
Washington for the convention. If she asks me 
about it again I’m going to tell her that I think Miss 
Ramsey can do it better. I’ll spare neither pride nor 
precedent in this office. 

He filled his cigarette case and took the next ele¬ 
vator to the editorial rooms. The light had been 
turned on in his office and the lid of his desk pushed 
up to make way for the evening papers, mail, proofs 
and telephone messages. He sat down and opened 
a telegram that lay on top of his letters: 

“Thank you for the appointment tomorrow. Amy 
Fiske.” 

He let it fall into the basket at his side. Why does 
she R.S.V.P. me? She must think a newspaper is 
like a dinner party. I’ll see her just long enough to 
say there’s no opening for her here. I owe old 
Rufus that much. 

He rang for Micky, gave a number to the tele¬ 
phone operator and drew a proof of the editorial 
page across his papers. The evening routine began. 
Orders, consultations, rebukes, corrections, the re¬ 
curring summons of the telephone. At half-past 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


29 


eleven he pushed away some proofs and sent out for 
Trainer. “I’m going early tonight,” he said. 
“Look out for things.” That will flatter him—to be 
left in charge. A fever drumming in my blood. 
Fve been working entirely in the subconscious to¬ 
night. My little savage. She won’t have to wait for 
me. Package. Coat. Gloves. Hat. 

In the street he turned up his collar and blew his 
breath in spurts of warm steam. The thick smell 
of sweat weighted the air of the subway station— 
that pungent incense to man’s labors. Daniel seated 
himself in a train and balanced his package on his 
knee. He stared through the window at the walls of 
the subway as they roared past, streaked by sudden 
lights. Each train paints its own frescoes. Patterns 
of almandite and ochre chasing us along moist walls, 
caught and effaced by sentinel lights or the inter¬ 
vention of a station. Clamor and blare, thunder 
and turmoil—we suffer all these in order to huddle 
our roofs together every man in terror lest he be 
squeezed out into the country where the stars will 
enter his thoughts. 

His package slipped from his knees and fell to the 
floor. He snatched it up and held it between his 
hands. My little savage’s supper. Kisses between 
mouthfuls and sips—food translated into flesh and 
thought. The breast of chicken tomorrow trans¬ 
formed by nature’s alembic into a tender memory of 
me. Wagner’s sauerkraut and sausages became the 
piercingly sweet Abendstern. Newton’s dinners of 


30 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


red beef turned into concepts of gravitation. Hoka- 
sai’s bowls of rice are now flowing lines hotly bid 
for at Occidental auctions. 

The train ground to a stop and Daniel poked him¬ 
self through the crowd that pressed up the stairways. 
The wind, cold and determined, forced itself through 
cheviot and linen. He shivered and set his teeth. 
This climate one of the prices we pay for progress. 
We need a measure of discomfort, it seems, to buck 
us up for the struggle of achievement. We thrive 
on shivers and sweat and having to decide often 
about changing our underwear. Too much hard¬ 
ship and we sit dully in igloos unfit for mental effort 
or the proximity of a civilized nose. Too much 
comfort and we take our ease under a flat-leafed tree, 
almost too listless to like the motion of the waves 
on the beach. 

Daniel opened the door of his apartment and 
looked about. It isn’t so bad since I bought that 
Mexican rug. Nice red in it—like the rich loam of 
Ceylon. She’ll like that. The books make pleasing 
blocks of color against the gray of the walls. But I 
daresay she won’t notice the books. 

He spread a yellow and brown checked cloth on 
the table and fetched plates, glasses and a bottle of 
sherry from the kitchenette. Turning on the cold 
water in the bathroom, he put clean towels about. 
His pajamas were hanging on the bathroom door, 
wrinkled and limp. He pulled them down and 
kicked them under the bathtub. He thrust razor and 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


3 i 


toothbrush into the cabinet and filled a pitcher with 
water for the table. Half cutting, half pulling, he 
separated the chicken into four clammy parts. 
Hurry, hurry, hurry. Greasy fingers. Can’t stop 
to wash them. She may be waiting even now. I’ll 
leave the light burning. In case she’s timid about 
stepping over a strange threshold into darkness. 

He snatched up his hat, closed the door behind 
him and ran down the stairs. The hall boy dozed 
at the switchboard of the telephone. Walking on 
his toes, Daniel passed by. The street was empty. 
He went to the curb and looked right and left. The 
wind lifted swirls of dust and tossed them back and 
forth before flinging them again at the buildings. 

A man came around the corner. Daniel watched 
him approach, cross the street and turn into a door¬ 
way. Presently a window was raised in the oppo¬ 
site apartment house and a woman in a yellow 
kimono stood there for a moment before the light 
went out. More swirls of dust and then a long 
interlude during which the street rested inactive. 

A yellow cat trotted by, tail held high, a senti¬ 
mental smile in her eyes as she blinked them at the 
light behind Daniel. A scarred grey cat followed 
her, stretching his neck forward and down and flat¬ 
tening his ears as he passed. The yellow cat leaped 
down an area way. The grey cat paused on the 
upper step, looking down and swinging his tail from 
side to side. 

A silence like an augury lay on the street’s bleak- 


32 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


ness. Daniel knocked his heels against the curb. 
He began to walk up and down. Four houses to the 
west. Turn. Four houses to the east. Turn. Four 
houses to the west. Turn. 

The whirr of a taxicab sounded in the distance. 
Daniel stopped walking and thrust his head from the 
collar of his coat to listen to the knock of the engine 
as it labored up the incline of the avenue. He was 
at the curb before his own doorway when the taxi¬ 
cab turned the corner and rolled at him. He leaped 
to the door and pulled it open. 

An old man stepped out, grave and surprised. 
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “What’s the meter 
read, driver?” 

Daniel moved back. He looked at his watch and 
slowly returned it to his pocket. The old man went 
to the door and pushed at its weight with a feeble 
arm and shoulder. Daniel, reaching from behind 
him, threw it open with a vicious thrust. The old 
man stumbled inside and made for the elevator. 
Daniel, his lips a blue line, followed into the hallway. 
The door closed on his heels with a clang. 


Ill 


Among Daniel’s letters was an envelope addressed 
in wavering, old-fashioned writing. Mother. Still 
watering that old bottle of ink. Asking me to come 
out Sunday to dinner, I suppose. I’d better go. Let’s 

see—two, no three, weeks since I- 

He slit the envelope with a paper cutter and read 
the penciled lines, frowning. 

“Dear Dan:—We haven’t had a letter from you in 
a week. How are you getting on over there? I hope 
you will come out on Sunday. The insurance is due 
on the first, you mustn’t forget it and Pa broke the 
clock again. Ruth was over yesterday with little Eddie. 
She wouldn’t want it known for anything but she’s 
expecting again. This is strictly private for you only. 
She looks poorly but that’s natural. Andrew is doing 
fine and had another raise at the office, so now he can 
give Ruth more comforts. I am well and wish I could 
say as much for your Pa. He mopes around the house 
and goes to bed every afternoon. Now, Dan, that is not 
like your Pa to do that. Maybe he’s got some sickness 
hanging over him but we’ll hope and pray for the best. 
Come Sunday sure. Your loving mother, Annie Geer.” 

Daniel tore the letter into bits. Probably old age. 
He must be sixty-eight or nine. I was born when he 


33 



34 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


was thirty-seven. The years are heavy on him and 
will soon press him into the earth. Then mother’s 
turn. And mine. Each generation burrowing under 
disturbs the sod. Our steps kick up the dust of our 
ancestors. All life that has been lies under our 
boot-heels and we tread on the eyes of the quiescent 
dead. Stamp one day—get stamped on the next. 
Glad Andrew got that raise. Now he won’t be 
borrowing from me. Poor Ruth! Another suck¬ 
ling to sap her strength. Andrews image, impress¬ 
ed a fourth time, will inflate him still more. “Quite 
a little family, eh, Dan? And when are you going 
to do your duty by your country?” “Now, Andy, 
you stop teasing Dan. You’ll only stir him up and 
he’ll start on one of his lectures.” “Well, Ruthie, 
he ought to be stirred up. Why don’t he get busy 
and find some nice girl to marry him? With all 
that money he’s earning it’s a shame. He’s grow¬ 
ing into a regular old bach.” “Marriage, Andrew? 
Not for me. Just the first week of the honeymoon. 
If you stay longer than that you’ll find disillusion¬ 
ment. You start to save so she can spend. Bills, 
words, tears. She telephones your office to ask if 
you still love her. She just adores the theatre and 
dancing. Her friends come in the evening when 
you’re reading. Pregnancy. Humor her whims. 
Calm her fears. Reproach yourself. Terrors of 
birth. Then turbulent nights in the interest of lung 
development. Wet garments, faintly ammoniacal, 
hang on the radiators. Loose wrappers, untidy 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


35 


hair, wrinkled eyes, inferior conversation—like 
yours, Andrew. Pregnant again. You’re caught in 
the trap for life. Only a villain ever gets away 
and breathes free, impersonal air, smiling at the 
curses that follow him as if they were petals.” “I 
told you so, Andy. You started him off and—” 

“Lady says she has appointment with you, Mr. 
Geer.” 

Daniel took a card from the boy. Miss Amy 
Fiske. Damn! Old Rufus. Twelve o’clock. 
Telegram. Suppose I’ll have to. “Show her in. 
Send Miss Elliot here first.” 

He scowled at his littered desk. They’re always 
late except when you don’t want to see them. Then 
they come before you have a chance to read your 
mail. If they want something from you they’re 
Johnny-on-the-spot. If you want something from 
them they don’t turn up. Like that little swindler 
last night. 

“Dictation, Mr. Geer?” 

“No. I want you to come in here in ten minutes 
and tell me that I’m wanted at a conference.” 

“A conference ?” 

“Yes, a conference. Is the word new to you?” 

She flushed. “I don’t understand.” 

“It isn’t necessary. Just do what I tell you.” 

She turned away, her eyes filling with tears. 
Stupid! Does she think I have time to stop and 
explain my motives to the office force? I suppose 
I’ve hurt her feelings. Well, she isn’t here to have 


36 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


feelings but to take orders. If she’s sensitive she’d 
better stay home and help her mother wash dishes. 
I’ve no time to coddle the employees. I hear Miss 
Amy Fiske approaching, damn her. If she has any 
of that vaunted feminine intuition she’ll see how 
busy I am and clear out. Behind my chair. 
Hesitating. Perfume. Penetrating French kind. 
Give me good old printer’s ink. 

“Mr. Geer?” 

Daniel lifted his eyes from the newspaper he was 
pretending to read and stood. Without looking at 
her face he accepted a firm, smallish hand in a fawn- 
colored glove. 

“Won’t you sit down?” he said and tapped his 
desk with a pencil. 

“Dr. Edwards told you, I believe, that I am 
looking for a position. He thought perhaps you 
would give me a chance here with you. I’ve brought 
some things I’ve been writing.” The voice was 
clear, slightly metallic, enunciating with sharpness. 

Daniel moved his shoulders. “I told Dr. 
Edwards that there was no opening at present. If 
you will leave your—um—articles with me, how¬ 
ever, I shall be happy to look at them and give you 
an opinion. If you have talent and later there’s an 
opening—” 

“Thank you. You are very kind.” She laid a 
notebook on the desk. 

Daniel took it with an abrupt gesture and placed 
it in a pigeon-hole. Not likely to press her point 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


37 


after my firmness. I suppose I’ll have to read that 
ridiculous book and say something non-committal. 
Pity she doesn’t use a typewriter. 

“I suppose you haven’t time to look at my things 
now ?” 

He turned his head and looked at her for the first 
time. Red hair, grey eyes with a glint of green. 
Regular Mona Lisa face with that curious smile 
in the eyes rather than on the lips. She looks a 
bit undernourished—skin dead white. But the lips 
are red enough—thin unrouged line. 

“I really haven’t, Miss Fiske. Sorry.” 

“Oh,” she said. “I suppose I shouldn’t have 
asked.” 

“Don’t apologize. I know you’re not used to 
offices.” He leaned back, still studying her face. 

“No. That’s something I must learn. And 
soon.” 

“What have you been doing?” 

She moved and the perfume she wore entered his 
nostrils. “Going to school and travelling. The 
usual thing. I was finishing college when my father 
died. I came to New York a few weeks ago. 
Mother didn’t want me to do anything—to work— 
in Boston.” 

Daniel acquiesced with a nod. “The usual thing.” 
Must have lost their money. That’s why her mother 
doesn’t want her to work in Boston. Their friends 
would be watching and criticizing like a pack of 
old harpies. Knowing light in her eyes. I wonder 


38 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


how much experience she’s had with life. Of course 
she’s all primed to make a good impression with her 
talk about school and mother. 

‘‘The field is larger here, of course.” Everything 
I say sounds banal and sterile. No, I haven’t time 
to look at your book now. What have you been 
doing? The field is larger in New York. A moron 
would have done better. 

“You must be very clever, Mr. Geer. Dr. Ed¬ 
wards told me you were surprisingly young to 
have such an important position. Did you begin 
here?” 

Daniel smiled. I knew old Rufus was impressed 
although he only said, “Well, well.” Funny the 
things people will say to others about you and you 
hear them by accident. Almost as if there were a 
tax on pleasant words. 

“No. On a smaller paper in New Jersey. The 
circulation—” But no. I can’t tell her that. Sounds 
like boasting. 

“Yes?” said Amy. Her tone was encouraging 
and sympathetic, an overture to further confi¬ 
dences. 

“Technicalities. You wouldn’t understand them.” 

Her perfume reached him again. I daresay some 
men like it. Mother used to say good women didn’t 
use it. The old-fashioned idea, springing from tales 
of Parisian cocottes. They say women have per¬ 
fumes blended to express their individualities. 
Heliothrope and violet combinations for blondes— 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


39 


mixtures of musk for brunettes. Red hair has its 
own natural flavor, that Frenchman at the Deux 
Magots told me. As often unpleasant as not. 

“I think successful people are cruelly impatient 
with beginners,” Amy said suddenly. “I know they 
haven’t the time to give. But that superior attitude 
is in human nature. I can remember when I was 
going to school in France an American girl used to 
want to practise French with me. I told her I 
hadn’t time which was true. But whenever she was 
near I took delight in speaking as fast as I could, 
exaggerating all the r’s and intonations.” 

“As a general rule, you’re right,” said Daniel, 
“but not this time. I didn’t want to explain how 
I happened to come here because—” 

“Do tell me. I’ll understand,” said Amy, leaning 
forward. 

Daniel looked into her eyes, hot, cold, insistent. 
He breathed her perfume and after a moment looked 
away. Something in her eyes disturbs me. Danger¬ 
ous, that Gioconda type. Sorry for any man she 
gets between her claws. Not the usual female 
prowler. Has she brains? 

“I’m sorry not to hear about it,” said Amy. She 
twisted a small lock of hair about a gloved finger 
and tucked it under her hat. “Perhaps some other 
time—when you tell me your opinion of my mis¬ 
cellany there.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Daniel. ‘Til send you a note 
about it when I return your book.” 


4° 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Then I’m not to see you again?” A flattering 
alarm sounded in her tone. 

“I’m very busy, Miss Fiske. I come here at noon 
and leave after midnight.” 

“But luncheon? Dinner? Tea? You must 
sometimes stop at those hours.” 

“I lunch and dine at a restaurant two blocks from 
here. Half an hour suffices.” 

He pushed back his chair. She’s insistent but 
she can’t trap me. I have no time for that sort of 
thing—to say nothing of the expense it would in¬ 
volve. Where the devil is Miss Elliot? 

Amy fastened the fur collar of her coat. “I won’t 
keep you any longer,” she said. “Will you take my 
address?” 

Daniel picked up her card from the desk and 
wrote her street number under the old-fashioned 
script. “I daresay it’s no use giving you my tele¬ 
phone number,” she said, “since you would not use 
it.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Daniel. “I’m a busy man and 
cant waste time on either social amenities or gal¬ 
lantries.” Better be frank in the first place. Other¬ 
wise she’ll be telephoning me to leave work and come 
to tea. No wonder some women don’t get on in 
their careers. They have too much time on their 
hands. I suppose she’d like to have me running in 
at odd moments for a bit of gossip—or to aid her 
maiden efforts in literature. She’s offended. Biting 
her lip. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


41 


“And rude,” Amy said. “Don’t forget to add that 
while you’re describing yourself. Goodbye. And 
thank you for your trouble. I’ll tell Dr. Edwards 
you are to give me an opinion later ” Without of¬ 
fering her hand she walked toward the door. 

Damn! Now she will tell him I was rude to 
her. “Forgive me,” he said, following. “I have to 
be stern with myself and focus every thought on 
the office for the next few months. If I don’t— 
well, someone else may be sitting in that chair.” 

Amy stopped and, turning, held out her hand. 
“The American business man! A curious type. 
Do you think he’ll survive ? I warn you that you’ll 
lose interest in life before you’re fifty if you work 
at this unreasoning speed.” Still pressing his hand 
she smiled. 

Sharp little teeth. Like a baby tigress. Lucky 
I’m not susceptible. She’s an insidious drink for 
any man. Her heady scent—more dangerous than 
bullets— 

“You’re wanted at a conference, Mr. Geer.” 

“Thank you, Miss Elliot.” He released Amy’s 
hand. Hope Miss Elliot didn’t see. She’s been 
crying. I spoke roughly—bad tempered today. 
That little sneak last night did it. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Geer.” 

He held the door open for Amy and watched her 
walk away from him through the city room, intent 
only upon her steps and the door before her. Walks 
as if conscious she’s better born than the rest. I’m 


42 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


sure she’s not so simple as her manner. Back in her 
head something is constantly on the watch, cal¬ 
culating, counting this exchanged for that. Many 
men would have been knocking at her door tonight. 
Not I. The result is too clear. My blood fevered 
for weeks by pursuit, my hours split and scattered, 
coming and going as in a dream, flowers, dinners, 
lessons in journalese and at the end, “Oh, don’t, 
Mr. Geer!” as usual. 

He sat down at his desk. Behind with everything 
today. Glass of milk here for luncheon. Wonder 
can Micky find a hot roast beef sandwich. Don’t 
forget deposit for knife and fork. That perfume 
still hanging in the air. Made in Grasse, probably. 
I must go there to see the flower gardens set high 
above the Mediterranean. Millions of pounds of 
petals used every year. Narcissi, mimosa, orange 
blossoms, tuberoses, violets, lilacs. Women working 
knee-deep in flowers. Any admirer that brings 
them a bouquet probably receives it back between 
the eyes. I wonder what kind of thing she has set 
down in that little book. Haven’t time now. Might 
glance at a page, though. 

He pulled the notebook from its pigeon-hole. Red, 
supple leather. Pleasure to touch good leather. Silk 
raises my gooseflesh. 

Mes Pensees 

.. Quelques Essais sur la Vie 

Un Poeme 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


43 


And she wants to get on a newspaper! Headlines 
for her stuff in French. Trainer, engage a special 
copy-reader for the new society girl reporter. One 
who can rhyme headlines preferred. Drape her desk 
in pink satin and serve tea every day at four-thirty 
sharp. Page i. Clear firm handwriting. Knows 
her own mind, that girl. Pensee number one. 

Pierrot the Scientist 

Under the albescent moon 
Pierrot poses 
Regarding the silver disk. 

Green beams swim through his fingers, 

“Come Pierrot, dance with me!” 

“No, Columbine. Tonight I study 
The moon and her ways 
And count-” 

Pensee one doesn’t seem to amount to much. I’ll 
tell her what I think of vers fibre. Pensee two. 

Dusk Falls on Palo 

Crooked rows of bamboo huts, their shadows blurred 
by fine dust. Brown bodies bending to fight night fires 
beneath the shacks. From the muddy river come the 
carabao, led by naked children. They cry shrilly, “Cadi 
dao!” “Ayao!” “Uaray hin adlao, tatay!” “Damun 
tubig ini nga gabi!” It is the rainy season and the 
river has risen, flooding the rice-fields. Women, muddy 
to their hips, wade out from the rows of green shoots 


44 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


and go to the river to bathe. A guitar begins a plaintive 
song. Domingo is courting Hermosa. She listens, 
drawing smoke from a cigar as long as her sister’s 
baby. He does not like to work but he has curly hair 
and after all her little shop of betel-nuts and fish brings 

in enough for two. So perhaps- The sun has gone 

and now the fires smoulder and give out a thick, suffo¬ 
cating smoke which mosquitoes are supposed not to 
like. The villagers withdraw into the huts to squat 
about the evening meal of rice and fish. Only the 
most daring suitors will go out after nightfall for 
there is danger. The evil spirit, Assuan, who perches 
like a bird in the branches of the ylang-ylang tree will 
fall upon the backs of the fool-hardy as they pass and 
by his touch steal away their wits forever. 

Well, that’s average newspaper stuff. Where is 
Palo? She must have gone there on those vague 
travels she spoke about. Pensee three. 

Sea Foam 

The sea whispers to me at dawn. Foam like lace- 

I don’t seem to be finding out much about Miss 
Amy Fiske’s real thoughts. I might have known 
she’d be too canny to turn them over to me. Little 
fox. A man would wait months to discover what 
lay back of those mysterious eyes. Pensee four. 

The Delusion of Love 

Love is like snow. You can’t touch it without spoil¬ 
ing its beauty. 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


45 


Love is like a sunset. As you gaze it disappears. 

Love is a man’s game. A woman plays only to lose. 

A man says, “Love me-” 

Aha! So she’s been bitten! Those were shadows 
of the past I saw in her eyes. It left a taste of 
aloes and a leaning toward cheap epigrams. Leave 
epigrams to the epigrammists, I must tell her. 
Perhaps she’s been bitten more than once. Red hair 
is seldom left unwooed and she didn’t acquire that 
hardness from occupying an observer’s bench. 
Hardness and red hair. Not a conventional com¬ 
bination. Tradition teaches otherwise. Except 
Queen Elizabeth. Or was it only her wigs that were 
red? Red hair neglected by artists. There’s Ros¬ 
setti. And Henner. Well, he’s scarcely an artist. 
More like a plumber’s ideal of a New Year’s cal¬ 
endar. Titian’s women not really red-haired. A 
pity Botticelli never departed from his yellow gold- 
streaked manes. What ruddy aromatic masses he 
would have painted, more alive than the serpents 
that grew from Medusa! 

He closed the notebook and pressed a buzzer. 
Now to close the incident of Miss Amy Fiske. I’ll 
send old Rufus a note, too, explaining that dinner 
Thursday night. I can ask him about her family. 
He’s always informed about blue strains in the blood 
and heraldic bearings. 

Miss Elliot came in, sat down in the chair by 
Daniel’s side and snapped an elastic about her open 


46 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


notebook. She held her shoulders erect and pressed 
her elbows rigidly into her sides. Her eyelids were 
swollen. 

“No address for this letter,” said Daniel. “It’s 
to go by messenger in a package. By the way, Miss 
Elliot, take Saturday afternoon off if you like. I 
meant to tell you.” 

Miss Elliot, sucking in the corners of her mouth, 
maintained an offended silence. 

Sullen little beast. Sorry I offered. She ought 
to know it’s give and take in an office. I’ve half a 
mind to get a male stenographer in here. I need a 
man to swear at sometimes. 

“I don’t want any favors—only civil treatment,” 
she said suddenly. 

“This letter is to Miss Amy Fiske,” began Daniel. 
“Fiske with an e.” I’m not going to discuss my 
conduct with her—not if she floods this room with 
her grief. If she doesn’t like her job she’s free to 
resign and work for some soothing syrup manu¬ 
facturer. 

“My dear Miss Fiske,” he dictated. “I am 
teturning your notebook by messenger. I am not 
a judge of vers libre which I detest but the Palo 
sketch isn’t half bad. It shows me that with training 
there is no reason why you should not qualify for a 
position on a newspaper. I did not read the Essays 
on Life so cannot comment. As for epigrams I 
advise you to leave that art to a more seasoned 
observer. The satire of twenty, however bitter, 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


47 


has no bite. Paragraph. I should advise you to 
study the various newspapers so that you will be 
prepared to acquit yourself well on whichever of 
our dailies you may finally coax to let you try your 
wings. The best of luck to you and my regards to 
Dr. Edwards. If at any time there should be an 
opening here I will communicate with you. Very 
truly—no, sincerely—yours. Please type that at 
once, Miss Elliot, and call a messenger.” 

Miss Elliot left the room and Daniel took up his 
mail. Why do I want to hurt that girl by sending 
back her book within the hour? I don’t know. It’s 
like an instinct to defend myself. I dislike her type. 
Feline. Watching her own safety while planning to 
spring. Carmen with her “Garde d toi” was more 
honest. 

He opened a letter. '‘Managing Editor. Dear 
Sir.” More syndicate stuff to draw feminine read¬ 
ers . Does the modern woman want a business man 
or a charming companion for a mate? What would 
you do if your husband came home with a blue 
garter in his pocket? Should wives tell all? Rub¬ 
bish ! I can’t wade through it. 

He took up the red leather book again. 

Quelques Essais sur la Vie. Inscrutable cold eyes 
with green lights. Even the book is perfumed. She 
said I was rude. I daresay I am—according to her 
pink-tea standards. Should I ask her to luncheon to 
discuss her future? No, I’ll be damned if I will. The 
incident is closed. Goodbye, Mona Lisa! 


IV 


Daniel walked up three flights of stairs, mouldy 
retainers of the odors of dinners, long since digested 
and separated into force and fertilizer. During 
eight interminable years I climbed here three times a 
day. A total of—three times three hundred and 
sixty-five. My salary averaged say $30 a week. 
That’s about a dollar and a half a climb. Curious 
to know every dust-filled crack and yet to feel like a 
stranger who searches timorously for an unfamiliar 
door. The bell must be out of order. I suppose 
father has been poking into the batteries again. 
Sunday dinners simmering behind all these doors. 
I hope mother’s not cooking cabbage. No, across 
the hall. 

Mrs. Geer opened the door, drying her hands on 
her apron. “I thought that would be you knocking, 
Dan,” she said. She pulled down his head. “The 
bell’s broken. Your pa—” 

“Who’s at the door, Annie?” 

She laid a finger on her lips and made a -backward 
motion with her head. “He’s real cross today. 
Don’t rile him, son.” 

“It’s I, father,” Daniel called and crossed the 
hall into the parlor. 


48 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


49 

“What are you whispering out there for?” de¬ 
manded Mr. Geer from his armchair. 

“Nothing, pa,” said Mrs. Geer. “Just telling Dan 
we’re glad he could come over today.” 

“How are you, father ?” 

“Fine as silk. How else should I he? Your ma 
likes to fret about me because I stay in the house this 
cold weather. I tell her I ain’t an Esquimau.” He 
held out the book that had been resting on his knees. 
“Maybe I didn’t get to church but I’m doing my duty 
at home. More than the rest of you can say. Better 
listen to a chapter, Dan. The Lord said T will be 
exalted among the heathen.’ ” 

Daniel, taking off his coat, did not reply. 

“Say, Dan, what’s that you’ve got there ? Another 
new coat? Here, let me see it.” 

“It’s only the coat I bought last fall, father,” said 
Daniel. “The first in six years.” 

“What was the matter with your old coat? Not 
a hole in it, was there? I suppose it wasn’t 
good enough for your new job in New York, 
eh?” 

“I’ll finish getting dinner, pa,” said Mrs. Geer. 
“You talk to Dan and see he has a pleasant visit.” 
She nodded meaningly at her husband and passed 
through the door, calling back, “Ruthie and Andy 
are coming over this afternoon.” 

“Don’t count on me for supper, mother. I have 
to get back early.” He took his coat and hat into 
the hall and hung them on the rack beside his 


50 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


father’s old hats. I can’t stand an afternoon of 
Andrew’s vulgarities and the three reproductions 
climbing over me. And father’s bad temper poison¬ 
ing the air. I’ll take the rest of my holiday in 
solitude with Pausanius. There’s mother coaxing 
me to stay. The dullest people are always the most 
persistent. And when they’re your family only lies 
can free you. 

He walked back into the parlor, treading on the 
carpet brought from the home of his childhood. 
I’ve watered it, pulled the nap from its rosebuds 
and worn it with my knees. It’s ready to be scrapped 
—like the old man there. He sat down at the win¬ 
dow. His father’s chin rested on his chest and his 
eyes were closed. Asleep. Well, I’d rather hear him 
breathe than talk. Sleep, the solace of age and the 
thief of youth. One-third of our lives passed in 
gaining force to go on living. Nature cheats us 
grievously and we thank her for her kindly gift. 
If I live to be sixty I shall have had but forty 
years of real life. Unconsciousness isn’t living. 
Dreams don’t count. Father’s face drawn and blue 
about the eyes. A cracked and senile vase. Does he 
ever think of the man that begot me? Or does he 
reflect only on a grave soon to be dug ? The shadow 
of that charcoal portrait of him up there. He used 
to lift me up to look at it. When I began to tell my 
thoughts he turned to Ruth and gave her the ortho¬ 
doxy I refused. My Haeckel and his Bible. Smells 
like roast beef. I’ll have a rare slice from the 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


51 

middle. Hope mother remembers I like salad. I’d 
better go out and talk to her. 

He went through the hall into the kitchen. 

“What is it, Dan? Is your pa—” 

“Asleep. He doesn’t seem very strong.” 

“I’m worried about him. He drops off like that 
all the time.” She straightened up from the stove 
and looked at Daniel with troubled tired eyes. “I 
got him a tonic but he won’t take it. By the way, 
Dan, I need a new ice-box. That old one leaks and 
it’s hard to empty.” 

Daniel sat down and brought out his check book 
and fountain pen. “I’ll give you your check for 
next month. Rent, ice-box, expenses—and the clock 
and door bell, too.” 

“Don’t forget the insurance, Dan.” 

“I don’t forget things, mother. You don’t have 
to go on reminding me.” 

“No, you’re a good boy, Dan.” She went to him 
and kissed his cheek awkwardly. 

He stood up and moved away from her. Worn 
and musty—like the carpet. Poor mother. Emptied 
of emotion she has only habit and her reflexes. The 
new ice-box takes the place with her of the star on 
the Christmas tree, the gold at the end of the rain¬ 
bow. 

“Go on back and read, Dan. I know you don’t 
like the kitchen.” She broke some eggs into a bowl 
and he watched the brown, knotted fingers. 

“Will you have dinner ready soon? I’ve brought 


52 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


an appetite whetted by restaurants. No cooking like 
yours in New York.” 

“If you like my cooking you’d better come back 
home where you belong,” she said. 

He returned to the parlor. Father still sleeping. 
As intent on his vest buttons as a Hindoo in um¬ 
bilical contemplation. Suspend their animation at 
will. Don’t believe it. Lie entombed for three days 
and come out demanding breakfast. Send their 
astral bodies to the North Pole. Safe enough, they 
claim, as long as no one cuts the connection. That 
babu who wrote a book exposing them was found 
in a shallow pond. Give me the dervishes, dancing 
or howling. Their pretences less hypocritical. 

He drew out a book from the shelves between the 
windows. New? No, only an old one without its 
cover. History of the Civil War. Lincoln the only 
admiration father and I ever had in common. He’s 
been arranging things here, I see. A segregation 
has taken place and his books are on the top shelf. 
World’s Almanac, Famous Battles, Life of General 
Grant, a space for the Bible, Mistakes of Congress, 
In His Steps, Darwin the Madman, the Old Testa¬ 
ment Atlas, Wicked Women of History, The Family 
Physician. Mother’s books next. Science and 
Health, Mothers of Great Men, Ivanhoe, Complete 
Works of William Cullen Bryant, When Knight¬ 
hood Was in Flower, Samantha at Saratoga, A 
Missionary in Old Nippon. Ruth’s books. How to 
Tell the Wild Birds, David Copperfield, The Wide, 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


53 


Wide, World, Stories from the Bible, Little Women, 
Tales from Shakespeare, Janice Meredith, First 
Year Algebra, the Family Song Book. And my 
discards at the bottom. 

He took up a book and looked at the title page. 
Daniel Boone Geer, December 25, 1903. Merry 
Christmas. My China Coast Pirates. With a yell 
that curdled Tom’s blood the crew of yellow savages 
swept down the deck, their pig-tails between their 
teeth. Even today that story unwinds in my brain 
as if I had seen it in a moving picture, its events 
more real to me than all the sodden years I lived 
here. Clive in India, Round the World in Eighty 
Days, From Earth to the Moon, Huckleberry Finn, 
Beginner’s Chemistry, Physics and Astronomy. 
And here’s the Book of Etiquette in honor of my 
first dance. My debut into society where I danced 
with the butcher’s daughter and the postman’s wife. 
Today I can send away Miss Amy Fiske of the 
Boston haut monde and refuse the dinner to Dr. 
Rufus Edwards whose family tree has a tail as long 
as our cat’s. Here’s my old brown notebook—notes 
and sketches on alfalfa fields, canals, sluice gates. If 
it hadn’t been for Harry Steele I would have gone 
out west. Instead of talk about which paper was left 
when the big divorce broke I should be hearing how 
old man Jones was caught with his gates open after 
his time was up. Stealing news—stealing water. 

“Daniel!” His mother’s voice from the kitchen. 

“Yes, mother.” 


54 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Mr. Geer lifted his head. “Ain't dinner ready? I 
suppose you like to have it late—like your stylish 
friends in New York.” 

“Mother is calling us now,” said Daniel. He held 
out his hand to his father but Mr. Geer ignored it 
and pulled himself out of his chair with jerking 
muscles. Daniel followed him into the kitchen and 
sat down in his old place by the window, his 
back to the array of mattresses and drying cloths 
across the court. Mr. Geer, knife and fork already 
in hand, watched his wife take a roast from the 
oven. 

“Roast pork, Dan,” she said as she placed it 
before him. “There’s the carving knife in front of 
you. I thought you’d like a good solid roast for 
Sunday.” 

“If he don’t like it there’s no call for him to eat 
it, Annie,” said Mr. Geer, passing his tongue over 
his lips. “He ought to be glad to get home cooking 
once in a while.” 

“Indeed I am,” said Daniel, carving. “I was 
telling mother a little while ago—” 

“If your appetite’s getting fussy you can wait 
till you get back to New York,” continued Mr. Geer, 
holding out his plate. 

“Just a moment—this is for mother,” said 
Daniel. 

“You give it to me. Your ma’s not ready yet,” 
snapped Mr. Geer. “She’s got the potatoes to bring 
—and the apple sauce.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


55 

“Help your pa and start in yourself, Dan,” said 
his mother. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Yes, mother.” I must keep my temper. After 
all, I needn’t come again for a month. Lust for 
food the only eager appetite retained by the old. 
He eats like an animal that fears a theft from its 
moving jaws. Curious that I’m half of him. That 
in me lies his greed, shrewdness, injustice. From 
her the impulse away from the sordid and a recep¬ 
tivity toward the unknown. 

“Sugar your apple sauce if I ain’t made it sweet 
enough, pa. How is it, Danny?” 

“The only official apple sauce. I commend it to 
the Bureau of Standards,” said Daniel. 

“Talk English or shut up,” said Mr. Geer. “I’ll 
have another piece of pork.” 

Daniel took up the serving fork. The mystery of 
the passing down of traits. Some of them develop 
actively and you are known by them. Others you 
hold in your seed and they pass through your un¬ 
awareness into beings you will never see. Father 
and mother have made me custodian of all the mil¬ 
lions that were their combined ancestry. Unknown 
warriors, sailors, dreamers, priestesses, chieftains, 
nomads, artisans, herdsmen— 

“More potatoes, pa?” 

“Yes—and gravy.” 

Daniel held the dish towards him. “Here you are, 
father.” Each generation holds within it the 
characteristics of every being who has propagated 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


56 

through the ages. In me lies embedded unconscious 
memories that I may never summon. Memories of 
the thrill of first life; of fear of the elements that 
was the beginning of religion; of labored cunning 
that saved man from the fate of the mammoths; of 
that insane ecstacy beasts know when they smell 
blood—lost to men forever. 

“How’s everything going at the office, Dan?” 

“Fine, mother.” 

“Do you think it’s permanent?” 

“No reason why it shouldn’t be. They won’t find 
many men who will give them the time and thought 
that I do.” 

His father leaned across to him, impaling his 
attention with his fork. “Horw much are they giving 
you, Dan?” 

“Not so much now as later on.” He began to eat 
the broken piece of bread he had been crumbling 
beside his plate. I knew this would come up again. 
He’ll never be satisfied until he finds out. 

“How much a week?” insisted Mr. Geer, rapping 
his plate with his fork. 

“Enough for the rent, father. Don’t worry. I’d 
always see you’re taken care of—you and mother.” 

Mr. Geer looked across at his wife. “What did 
I tell you, ma? It ain’t natural of him. Andy and 
Ruth say the same.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t discuss my private affairs 
with anyone, father,” said Daniel. 

“Private affairs? They’re your family, ain’t 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


57 


they? They got a right to say what they think, 
ain’t they ? The last time Andy was here to see us 
he said wait till he was earning as much as you and 
he’d take a bigger apartment for us downstairs.” 
Mr. Geer leaned back and smiled triumphantly. 

“Shame, pa!” said Mrs. Geer with trembling lips. 
“After all Dan has done for us!” 

“He’s only done his Christian duty like a son 
should for his parents. Honor thy father and 
mother, says the Good Book.” 

“Dan’s got his future to think of. He must put 
by a little something every week. Sickness can 
happen to anybody. Or he might want to get mar¬ 
ried.” 

“The natural state of man ain’t for Dan, ma. 
More likely he’ll break loose and go sporting around 
New York with some actress—” 

“Pa! Now you just eat your dinner and don’t 
say another word!” Mrs. Geer left the table and 
went to the stove. 

Daniel drank a glass of water. The sanctity of 
family life. The sweet inter-relationship that is the 
backbone of the nation. In every unit the victims 
writhe among their chains, each seeking to reinforce 
the bonds of the strongest member so that he may 
;not escape to liberty. A foot on his neck, a hand 
searching in his pockets and translations from the 
Hebrew tribal documents ringing in his ears. 
Father’s smiling to himself as if he had gained a 
victory over me. 


58 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Mrs. Geer came to the table and began to clear 
away. A flush was on her cheeks and her eyes were 
wet. Her faded house dress fitted tightly over thin, 
stooped shoulders and showed a nest of darns near 
the arm-holes. She put down clean plates and 
brought the dessert. When she sat down she made 
a sign to Daniel. “Dropped off again,” she 
whispered. 

Both watched the old man’s face—wrinkled eye¬ 
lids trembling and the tight mouth like Daniel’s still 
holding a smug smile of satisfaction. 

“The good of a night’s sleep don’t last him 
through the morning. Did you notice the two 
hats on the hall rack? I keep them there in case 
burglars should come—might scare them off.” 

“You’d better put my cane there, too,” said Mr. 
Geer suddenly. His wife jumped. “I thought you 
was asleep, pa,” she said. 

“Another good idea would be to pull Moody off 
his beat and stand him by the door to protect you,” 
Mr. Geer went on. “I don’t know what’s got into 
your ma, Dan. She tries to aggravate me every 
way she can think of from morning till night. 
Suppose you pass that pie over here, Annie, and 
stop complaining of me to Dan.” 

Mrs. Geer cut the pie. Her face quivered and 
presently she pulled up her apron and sobbed into its 
stains. 

Daniel pushed back his chair and walked out. 
He went into the little room that had been his 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


59 


and looked out of the window. The street lay below 
covered with dust and patches of dirty snow. What 
was that epigram Amy Fiske wrote about love and 
snow? I daresay the domestic wrangling in her 
home was as hot as anywhere else but probably 
smoothed over with good manners. My background 
would repel her. If she could see it she would feel 
scorn and shame for me. 

He turned to survey the room—a narrow iron 
bed, a washstand whose yellow surface was scarred 
by the eventualities of thirty years, a lame brown 
chair and strip of soiled matting, unravelled along its 
edges. Offered for purpose of comparison with 
the pink satin boudoir of Miss Amy Fiske—bath 
connecting, .bell summons maid, ice-water, ice-cream, 
hairdresser, ticket to Europe or a choice of suitable, 
fancy husbands. Wonder why she didn’t take one? 

A pasteboard box lay on the washstand under the 
pitcher’s broken nose. Daniel, passing, stopped to 
lift the cover. My collection of actresses from 
cigarette boxes. So father’s been dipping into the 
old table drawer and casting out the goats. That’s 
where he got the idea of my sporting around New 
York with an actress. The photograph of a Sun¬ 
day school picnic. There I am, a solemn thin boy 
on the edge of the crowd. By me Minnie, long since 
dropped into dust, shouting that day for campestral 
delights. She ate a lemon pie to the last crumb— 
mother baked it for Ruth and me. Here’s a tooth. 
Mine? I don’t know. Perhaps Ruth’s. The day 


6o 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


she came home crying from the dentist’s. He had 
shown her a dirty book and tried to kiss her. Father 
ran down there blazing— 

“Danny?” His mother opened the door. “Go 
in the parlor. It’s too cold for you in here.” She 
looked at the hed and sighed. “I saved the night¬ 
shirts you left behind. You may want them some¬ 
time. Your pa won’t wear any but flannel.” 

“I shan’t want them, mother. I prefer pajamas.” 

“Well, I suppose I can use them for cleaning. But 
somehow I don’t feel a man is really undressed if 
he’s got on pajamas.” 

Daniel went into the parlor, drawing out his 
watch. Half-past two. He looked at the black 
marble clock on the mantel-piece, bought at an 
auction with the money he had given his mother for 
Christmas. The hands pointed to five minutes past 
nine. Father’s destructive touch. Now he’s pre¬ 
tending he didn’t hear me come in. Mother’s 
brought out that stuffed pigeon again. I meant 
to throw it away. Yet it’s no worse than that 
plaster Cupid by the clock. Or that dried pampas 
grass. Exhibit two for Miss Amy Fiske and her 
Boston drawing room. 

Mrs. Geer came in and picked up a newspaper 
from the floor. “You all right, Dan?” she asked. 
“Ruthie ought to be here any minute now. She’s 
late, I guess, with her Sunday dinner.” 

“I must start back soon,” he said. “You know 
newspapers appear on Monday as on all other days.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


61 


“What did you come at all for if you run away 
as soon as you get your stomach full?” said Mr. 
Geer. 

His wife’s eyes clouded as they appealed to Daniel. 

“Why do you put out that disreputable bird, 
mother?” said Daniel, turning his back to his father. 

“Oh, I don’t know. It brought back the old days, 
I guess. You had such a good time working over 
it.” 

“I remember,” spoke up Mr. Geer. The amiability 
of his voice turned their heads to him in astonish¬ 
ment. “You were just a little shaver—not fourteen, 
was he, ma? You wanted to be a taxidermist when 
you grew up. Guess you’re glad you changed your 
mind. I never fancied my boy being in the business 
of stuffing dead animals.” He waggled his head 
and laughed to himself, his amusement giving back 
to him for the moment a likeness to the charcoal 
portrait above his head. “You remember old man 
Lawson, Dan? His boy ran for alderman this last 
election.” 

Mrs. Geer lifted her hand. “I hear them coming 
up the stairs. Don’t forget, Dan. Not a word to 
Ruthie that you know—” She went into the hall, 
walking with awkward uneven steps. 

Daniel waited for his father to continue but the 
communicative mood had passed. His thick eye¬ 
brows were pulled together in a frown. 

“Andy’s a good boy, a good boy,” he said, eyes on 
the door. “Brings home his pay envelope to Ruthie 


62 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


as reg’lar as clockwork. No secrets from anybody.’* 

Daniel walked to the window. Disagreeable old 
bore. What he wants is to live in style at my 
expense to show his neighbors what a successful 
son he bred. Not much you don’t, you old leech. 
Here you stay and live until you die and no amount 
of bad temper will pull another cent out of me. 
There’s Ruth’s meek voice, Andrew’s guffaw and 
the whining of the three replicas. I’ll get the greet¬ 
ings over and depart for the city of perfect privacy. 

“How are you, Ruth?” He kissed her un¬ 
powdered cheek. 

“How do, Dan?” Andrew gripped his hand in 
careless familiarity and enveloped him in the odor 
of onions that came unescapably from his wide 
mouth and wet flaring nostrils. 

“Uncle Dan! Uncle Dan!” 

He patted the three heads that bobbed about his 
legs. 

“Come here, children,” said Ruth. “Uncle won’t 
want to kiss you until I wipe your noses.” 

Daniel shuddered and went back to his chair, 
passing Andrew who stood, hands in pockets, with 
an air of expansive self-importance. 

“Hear about my raise, Dan?” 

“How was the sermon, Andy?” asked Mr. Geer. 

“Oh, he gave us a fine talk today,” said Andrew. 
“Lay not your riches where thieves can get at them. 
He said—” 

“There, Dan, do you hear that?” called Mr. Geer. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 63 

“What you need is to get to church once in a while 
and hear about the milk of human kindness.” 

Daniel bit his lip. He can’t let me alone. Jeal¬ 
ousy eats him like a disease. His greed backed by 
the New Testament and the Old. He turned to his 
sister. “I saw a girl on the street last week with 
eyes like yours. It reminded me of the days when 
we were playmates.” 

Ruth looked pleased. The lines in her face relaxed 
as she smiled across the heads of her children. “A 
long time ago, Danny. Everything’s different now. 
I’m glad you’re getting along so well but you look 
tired.” 

“My late hours. I try to get along with as little 
sleep as possible. Mornings are the only chance I 
have for reading. I can’t waste them in sleep.” 

“You’ll lose your health,” she said. “Better get 
more sleep.” 

“Don’t worry about Dan, Ruthie,” said Andrew. 
“You can bet your last dollar that he gets everything 
that’s coming to him.” 

“Sleep’s not so important,” said Daniel, address¬ 
ing Ruth. “Napoleon managed with four hours. 
Edison, too, they say. And Gibbon tells us that 
Justinian slept only one hour.” 

Andrew burst into a derisive shout. “Is that so? 
You must think you’re like them fellows.” 

“I wish I were. I admire kudos, don’t you?” 
he said. Ignorant lout. That will give him pause. 
He almost bursts through his skin when he hears a 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


64 

word he doesn't understand. Childish of me. This 
house takes me out of myself. If I stay another five 
minutes I’ll be in a brawl. 

“Now, Dan, don’t begin to show off,” said Ruth. 
“You’ll only make Andy mad.” 

“Sorry, Ruth,” said Daniel. “But it’s a tempta¬ 
tion sometimes to make the bourgeois sit up.” 

No one spoke. Every eye fastened on Daniel’s 
pale tight face with an expression of displeasure. 
He arose and moved toward the door. Exit Dan, 
the fifth son of Jacob and the first of Bilhah. They 
look as if the world had stopped for them—as if 
the diastole which goes on even though calamity 
stalks and reason melts away had ceased at an in¬ 
comprehensible word. He pulled on overcoat and 
gloves in the hall. Silence beyond the door. An 
alvine odor hangs in the air of this place. I’ll be 
in a cleaner atmosphere when I’m back with the 
Perfumed Garden and Von Bayros. I’ll not come 
here again in a hurry. If mother wants to see me 
she can meet me in New York. 

He stood in the doorway. “Goodbye. I’m off.” 

His mother crossed the parlor. She pulled down 
his head. “Don’t forget us, Danny. Come soon 
again. Your pa—” 

The sneer on his lips faded as he saw her tears. 
He kissed her and patted her hand. “Goodbye, 
mother.” She looked at him appealingly but he 
turned away and slammed the door behind him. 


V 


Spreading open a newspaper, Daniel nodded at 
the headwaiter. “Hurry my luncheon along, John,” 
he said. “I have only half an hour today.” 

John bowed, suave, servile, bending a face that 
was flewed like a bloodhound. “By the way, Mr. 
Geer, a lady lunching here yesterday asked Henry 
what time you generally came in.” 

“A lady?” Daniel stared at the important shirt- 
front. “What lady?” 

“I don’t know. She isn’t a regular customer, I 
guess.” 

“Urn.” Daniel rattled his paper and John moved 
away. A woman inquiring for me. It’s fantastic. 
Women don’t ask for me in restaurants. I’m no 
Broadway rounder to be sought out at mealtime. 
Probably she said Mr. Jeer or Leer or Beer with 
money to spend on foot-loose females. 

He frowned at the headlines. Whew! Badly 
beaten on that Griggs case. I’ll fire the reporter who 
had that assignment. Bad as young Smoot last 
week writing the story without going near the place. 
That’s why Trainer wore a guilty air. Waiting for 
the thunderbolt. He’ll get it, too. Bet Miss Curtis 
did it. He’s always protecting her. If they hadn’t 
65 


66 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


held it over for the second edition we could have 
bluffed it. Here are John’s sly feet again. Con¬ 
versational as a barber today. Pretend not to see. 

“Mr. Geer.” 

“Yep.” Keep on reading. That’s the thing. 
Conspiracy from here to Harlem to keep me from 
reading today. If I don’t look up he’ll soon go. 
Discourages them to talk to a stone face. Psycho¬ 
logical difficulty. 

“You haven’t ordered yet, sir.” 

“Oh.” He took the menu and ran it down. 
“Rare roast beef, I guess. You don’t have much 
of a variety any more.” 

“Got something pretty good today. Spanish dish. 
Rice, peppers and eels. Like to try that?” 

“No. Roast beef—rare.” He put up his paper 
and shut off the room. Can’t stand scavenger food. 
Always think of the idiot sons who ate the eels they 
found in their father’s corpse when he was brought 
home drowned. Cannibals, once removed. Slimier 
than snakes, eels. That snake I killed that twisted 
around my wrist. An instinct against them. Pro¬ 
bably that’s why the Romans increased a criminal’s 
punishment by putting snakes in the sack along with 
the monkey and dog. How they must have writhed 
together on the Tiber’s bed, biting their venomous 
protests into eyes and neck! 

“Good morning, Mr. Geer.” 

He looked up with dazed eyes and stumbled to 
his feet. The newspaper fell to the floor and he 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


6 7 


kicked it under his chair. Amy Fiske smiled at 
him, standing there mysterious, predatory, fragrant. 
A black lace veil made a shadowed retreat for her 
bright hair and softened the secret amusement in her 
eyes. She gave a black glove into his fingers. He 
drew out a chair. 

“Sit down and tell me your news.” So the 
panther came out to stalk yesterday. Wonder how 
she discovered my restaurant. By cunning and 
craft, chicanery and artful dodging. 

Amy settled herself with little sinuous movements 
and pulled off her gloves. Daniel sat down, too, 
and adjusted his. napkin over his knees. How 
awkwardly I received her! Blushing like a sopho¬ 
more. My embarrassment amuses her. Tables 
turned against me today. Fm more at ease in my 
office. Here I feel encompassed. I must establish 
myself m her eyes. Be impersonal, that’s it. Im¬ 
personal and high-handed. 

He leaned back, unsmiling, his eyes controlled. 
“I couldn’t get away from the office yesterday for 
luncheon. Did you have my table?” That will 
confuse her. She will ask me how I knew she was 
here. 

Amy rested her pointed chin in the palm of her 
hand. Her eyes held to his in lenient insolence. 
“No. I sat over there by the window.” 

Daniel moved under her gaze. Nothing but re¬ 
lentless social training could give a girl that poise. 
She knows I know about her hunting expedition 


68 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


and yet she doesn’t even trouble to explain. I like 
that. Most women would serve up an alibi. “Per¬ 
haps if you haven’t lunched yet—” 

“Thank you. That would be very nice.” 

He gave her the menu and watched her, still 
smiling as she read it. I hope she’s clever at in¬ 
terpretation. If so she will guess from my tone 
that I mean, “Since you have trapped me, Miss 
Fiske, I can do nothing else but invite you.” Just 
as well. Now she’ll give old Rufus a good account 
of me. I wonder why she’s smiling. Does she 
enjoy my discomfiture or does she want me to note 
well those little pointed pearls that are her teeth? 
Ah, Mona Lisa, swathed in seduction, I suspect 
you of every wile that directs the activities of 
woman. Knowing that black is your most fitting 
setting you hope to dazzle me today by wrapping 
your compact roundnesses in its penumbra. You 
are prepared for a conflict of wills. 

“An omelette and a salad, please,” said Amy. 
“I’ll order myself, if you don’t mind. I like a 
special dressing.” 

Daniel beckoned a waiter for her instructions and 
watched the gestures of her hands, strong yet listless, 
threaded with blue veins. On the little finger of her 
right hand was a scarab of greenish-blue in a setting 
of lotus blossoms carved from gold more red than 
yellow. Daniel studied it. A porcelain symbol of 
life everlasting made under Egyptian skies in their 
bluest days. It may have sustained a Pharaoh’s sad 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


69 


speculations on his soul. I’d like to ask her if it’s 
genuine—not that illegitimacy would alter its beauty. 
Perhaps the pricelessness of age is a false value. 
At any rate it encourages fraud, theft, waste and 
romanticism. So does love for that matter. How 
ironically we spend gold for age and more gold for 
youth! Our acquisitive sense struggling always 
against our weakness for the indolent lotus until 
the day that our eyes do not send our lifeless brain 
the message that the sun has forgotten to rise. Only 
in death do we possess the unpossessi'ble. 

Amy dismissed the waiter and opened her velvet 
bag. Holding it up by its tassel she spilled the 
contents on the table—gold cigarette case, lip-stick, 
scent bottle, powder-box—tumbling and rattling 
together. 

Daniel looked at them, his eyes amused and at¬ 
tracted. The secondary sexual characteristics sup¬ 
plemented. Lime for the snare. In mother’s time 
it was done with kidney-shaped pads, bodice cups 
and a steel girdle. 

“Remnants of past days,” said Amy with a lift 
of her shoulders. “I used to lose everything. I’m 
more careful now that there can be no replacements.” 
She tapped a cigarette. “I’ve been to all the news¬ 
paper offices in town since I saw you. Yours is the 
most attractive by far. You must give me some¬ 
thing to do there—good, kind, nice Mr. Geer.” 

Daniel struck a match. “I’m sorry. It’s out of 
the question.” Now for the heavy artillery. She’s 


7 o 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


getting her smile into action behind the smoke 
screen. This amuses me. I like to refuse l}er. 
The first real mondaine I ever met. Wish Bob would 
walk in now. He’s always taken the attitude that 
charming women were out of my reach. 

Amy touched her cigarette to the flame. By the 
flare he observed the smoothness of the skin about 
her eyes and the delicate blue shadows that rested 
almost imperceptibly beneath them. “Don’t be so 
hard on a beginner,” she said. “Please make a place 
for me in a corner. Surely someone helped you 
when you began.” 

“Don’t you believe it,” he said. I’d like to tell 
her of those years. The cold of my winters, my 
sweating summers. And she in her boudoir by the 
ice-cream button. 

“I want to be like you. How shall I begin?” she 
asked. 

Daniel looked at her long white hands. “You can’t. 
It’s too late. One has to get out early and fight.” 

She lifted her cigarette, eyes on his. “But I 
didn’t” 

“Then you’re up against it. Experience is what 
counts. You won’t get far with sex appeal these 
days.” 

Amy began to laugh. Her voice, metallic in speech, 
came softly from her throat. “Mr. Geer! It’s still 
the best weapon against muscle.” 

He watched the shadows in her face, altering, 
mpving, as the contours changed with her laughter. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


7 1 


She looks very young when she smiles. About 
twenty-three, I should judge. Wonder where’s she 
been hearing those speeches about the battle of the 
sexes. Probably belongs to some equal rights sorosis 
that cries out against the tyrant man at monthly 1 
meetings. 

“I’m no super-woman,” she went on, “I’m terri¬ 
fied when I meet one. I must begin by favor. Many 
men begin that way, too, you know. They’re not all 
born as clever as you.” She stopped to draw breath, 
holding it before letting it out in a long sigh. Then 
she held out her hands, palms up, toward Daniel 
and lifted her shoulders. Her eyes, earnestly open, 
began to close. The lids crept down, covering the 
lights and leaving sphinx-like slits. 

He gazed at her. She 'battles with the unlethal 
weapons of soft sighs and drooping eyelids. I 
admire more the spears and shields of the Amazons, 
immortalized in their rebellion on brave Greek 
friezes. I wonder if only the ugly ones joined that 
strange army. A beautiful face seems to sap a 
woman’s courage and condemns her to the path of a 
satellite where she shines so brightly that she 
deceives the unobserving. 

The waiter brought a tray. Daniel helped Amy 
collect the glittering litter on the table. The top 
of her scent bottle was loose and he found his fingers 
wet and pungent. He dried them on his handker¬ 
chief. She bent toward him. The smoke from her 
cigarette rose between their faces. 


72 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


"Well, Mr. Geer?” 

"I wish I could do as you ask,” he said. “But 
it’s impossible. If you had had the training and 
there were a vacancy—” 

“Can’t you arrange that?” She smiled again and 
her eyes, promising and denying, searched in his. 
He shivered. Something about this girl pierces and 
haunts. I won’t see her again. She blows away 
my refusals like feathers. What helpless hands, 
provocatively poised! I could crush them out of 
shape. And get well scratched afterward with those 
pointed pink nails. Would she scratch? I wonder. 

He bent forward as if asking the question aloud. 
Her eyes are steady. Good. She doesn’t retreat. 
No pretences. The other day her eyes were gray. 
Now they’re as green as a chrysoprase is green and 
as cold as the waters of Cydnus. Cold, yet burning. 
She’s extraordinary. Perhaps I think so only be¬ 
cause I, the male, feel the female signalling. A 
pity that knowing what is true doesn’t control the 
instincts. Intelligence has no value when lovely 
woman is busy at her conquests. She’s as beautiful 
as the moon. Ah, a good collation, Amy and the 
moon, in their deception. Instead of being a shining 
shield, a pale princess, a silver sickle in the sky, a 
golden bowl, a slender crescent, the moon is in reality 
a black ball of unlovely dirt, hanging dead and 
unburied to remind us of a similar end. And Amy. 
What is she under that warm and tender flesh, tinted 
and adorned with two superb green jewels? A 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


73 


skeleton of dry horror—a grinning skull. Knowing 
that, she moves me. I don’t bring to this beef the 
appetite that its excellence deserves. She’s smiling 
again. A danger signal is flashing its message. 
Back to the office before I promise she may come to 
work in the morning for an inordinate salary. 

He spoke with hesitation, eyes turned on his plate. 
“I’m afraid I must go now. I have a conference at 
two o’clock.” 

“Another conference? Oh, dear!” Her reproach 
was flattery, delicately honied. He looked up with a 
smile. “How changed you are when you smile!” 
she said. “You’re another person, lighted up as 
if one passed a candle inside a shell.” She trailed 
her hand in the air between them. 

Daniel’s smile flickered and went out. He blushed. 
My first pretty compliment and I don’t know how 
to answer her. I’m not used to people talking like 
that. Now she’s thinking how to persuade me. 
But it’s no use. I’m made of concrete. Plot and 
scheme all you like, Amy Fiske. Quicken the beat¬ 
ing of my heart. But no is the answer. My pulses 
do not guide my head. And for that I’m a man in 
a million. 

“I’m afraid I’ve bored you and spoiled your 
luncheon,” said Amy. “I’ve talked of things that 
interest you very little. Women, I mean, and their 
difficulties.” 

“Occasionally I have been interested in women but 
not in their difficulties,” he said. “I’ve found that 


74 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


to be interested in a woman’s difficulties means being 
put in charge of them.” Now Fve made her angry. 
She’s gathering gloves and purse. That was rude, 
I suppose. Truth always sounds rude. I!d better 
say something pleasant. “Black is very becoming to 
you. I like it better than the brown you wore the 
other day. It—er—sets off your skin and hair.” 
Damn! I can’t make a compliment without stam¬ 
mering. I’d do better to write it down and pass the 
paper across the table. 

“Thank you,” said Amy. She clipped her words 
closely. A flush appeared on her cheeks and she 
pulled down her veil. Her eyes 'behind it were 
contracted, grudging. She slipped a hand into a 
glove and pulled at it. 

“I’ve been admiring your scarab,” said Daniel. 
“Do you believe in its promise?” 

“No. It’s for ornament, not optimism,” she 
answered. Without preliminaries she slipped into 
her fur coat before Daniel could reach her. “Good¬ 
bye. I shan’t see you again.” 

Daniel stood by her side. He -bowed and looked 
at her with blank eyes. “Not—not see me again?” 

“No. Thank you for my omelette.” Without 
offering her hand to him she turned and walked 
out of the dining room. 

He was still standing there when the waiter 
brought the bill. He paid and left the restaurant, 
turning into lower Broadway. He walked toward 
his office, his overcoat blown back on his shoulders 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


75 


by the wind. Pausing at a crossing for the traffic 
to pass, he began to shiver. He buttoned his coat, 
put on his gloves and pulled out his handkerchief. 
That damned perfume all over me. Serves me right 
for having touched her gew-gaws. It takes more 
than a few gold toys and a lace veil to seduce me, 
she knows by now. She’s wasted two days and 
received only an omelette for her pains. She needn’t 
think I minded her walking off like that. A punish¬ 
ment for my obstinacy, she intended it. But I’m 
not made up of such weak stuff as she thinks. She 
can go her way and I’ll go mine. Because she 
couldn’t get what she wanted she decided not to 
see me again. Fm not worth her time unless there’s 
something to 'be gained. Well, let her stay with 
her friends of the upper crust. They know how 
to pay compliments and bow and scrape like dancing 
teachers. They could give an answer to the candle- 
inside-the-shell compliment. All right, Miss Amy 
Fiske from Boston. I’m through. Go hang yourself 
on your family tree for all I care. But I should 
think she would blush to remember she called me 
rude. John saw her walk out but pretended to be 
talking to someone. He’ll pass the word around 
and all the waiters will have a good laugh. I’ll go 
somewhere else tonight. Damn women anyway. Or 
rather damn me that I have to think of them. Sex 
sex, sex. It poisons life. Push it away, forget it 
for a time, then back it comes. The cycle whirls 
again and you drop everything, scepter or pickaxe, 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


76 

and go hunting. Stronger than death. Cheap 
phrase, but true. Take war. The night Tom and 
I got leave before the attack. Extermination prob¬ 
able. Did we read a great book for the last time? 
Or contemplate aesthetic beauty in the Louvre? 
Like hell. Our choice was sex. Live by it, die by 
it. We packed a taxi with girls. Off to the cafes. 
That’s how we got ready to die. Funny how 
Tom’s girl knew it was the last for him. “Alors, 
a la prochaine.” But she shook her head. Good 
thing he didn’t notice. So sick that he wanted only 
the seclusion of one of those dirty tin spheres. Next 
day he lost his face. Brains lying about like grey 
gruel. 

Miss Elliot was waiting in Daniel’s office. 
“They’ve gone into the conference, Mr. Geer.” 

He took off his coat without replying. 

She came to his side. “This was in those papers 
you gave me this morning. I thought you might 
want it.” 

He looked down at the card in her hand. Miss 
Amy Fiske and her address. “No. Throw it in 
the basket.” He picked up a memorandum pad 
from his desk and stood there till she left the room. 
That girl’s getting too officious. Doesn’t she think 
I know I’m late? And if that card had been some¬ 
thing I wanted she would have tossed it out of the 
window. 

He went half way to the door, stopped and 
turned back to his desk. He stood there, frowning 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


77 


and blinking, then bent quickly over the basket. The 
card was lying face down on the voided mail of 
the morning. He caught it up and put it in his 
pocket. Facing the door in an abrupt turn, he saw 
Miss Elliot standing there. She hesitated, then 
came forward, eyes on the floor, a gloating smile 
curling the corners of her mouth. In her hands 
were the letters he had dictated at noon, now typed 
and ready for his signature. 

Daniel’s face grew tight and red. He brushed 
past her and hurried from the room. 


VI 


Daniel turned on the bathtub tap and a jet of 
water splashed and pushed the barricade of his hand. 
As usual no hot water. And tomorrow morning I’ll 
be lucky if there’s enough to cover my shins unless 
I get up at seven. Pyjamas disappeared. Mrs. 
Lewis has been here. Get clean ones. He went 
whistling into the bedroom, looked on and under the 
bed and opened the dresser drawers. That woman 
forgets my laundry for three weeks, then hides it. 
If those buttons are still off I’ll fire her no matter 
what she says about her Bill’s rheumatic pains from 
the docks. I’d better take some aspirin. Headache 
since luncheon with Miss Amy Fiske. Mr. Wood 
said I looked pale. No wonder. Humiliating for a 
woman to walk off like that. Mr. Wood guessed 
something was wrong. Kept looking over and once 
answered for me. Hope the others didn’t notice I 
hadn’t been listening. In another ten minutes I 
would have lost my temper. Not easy to say nothing 
but, “Oh, yes, Mr. Bird.” “Quite right, sir.” “Oh, 
abso-/wte-ly.” Pack of flatulent inefficients. Lucky 
for Horace Bird his father left a ready-made news¬ 
paper that he can’t put on the rocks in a hurry. 
“Now, gentlemen, the point before us is this. Are 
78 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


79 


we willing to accept that new price for paper?” 
What if they weren’t, I’d like to know? I suppose 
he’d buy a few thousand yards of cheesecloth and 
print on that till some paper company felt sorry for 
him. Wonder if a cold shower would do my head 
good. 

Shuffling in torn slippers, he went into the living 
room and stood frowning at the bookcase. A parcel 
lay along the top. He carried it to the table and 
opened it by the reading lamp. The laundry. My 
God, why did she put it there ? Might not have seen 
it for a week. Print another sign for her. PUT 
LAUNDRY ON BED. She’d never notice a new 
one. Hasn’t learned the old ones yet. Glad I 
bought that rug. Ancient Aztec flavor about the 
pattern. Are angles older than curves in art? No. 
Someone said the river Meander was the first 
design. 

He kicked off his slippers, rubbed his soles on 
a red square of the pattern and began to slide about 
the crooked black 'border. Softly rough to bare feet. 
Very pleasant. Used to like grass when we lived 
near Newark. Stepped on a bottle once. Scar still 
there perhaps. Yes, here—like a crescent. Once 
more around Mexico before bed. Like hammered 
sheep’s wool. Wonder if the barefoot races have 
lost sensation in the soles. Perhaps the callouses are 
ticklish. Twelve o’clock. That’s what it was when 
I came in. Must have stopped. Stopped short 
never to go again when the old man died. Grand- 


8o 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


father's clock. Mother sang that over her sewing. 
That and Oh, Emma, something dilemma. And I 
danced with a girl with a hole in her stocking. 
Set clock by watch. Twelve-fifteen. Never exactly 
alike, says Einstein. Position alters accuracy. 
Sunday supplement method of illustrating Einstein. 
Start away from a clock at the speed of light and 
although the clock runs on you see the hands always 
pointing to twelve-fifteen. After fifty years of this 
intensive travelling, still twelve-fifteen. Catchpenny 
educational propaganda for the masses which leaves 
them cold and more befogged than ever. The de¬ 
lusion of the proletariat's needs. Millions that should 
maintain science and art spent on educating sub¬ 
normals—or even normals. Those plumbers and 
painters who used Old Rufus's first editions to rest 
their pots and tools on. His original Beardsley two 
hundred pounds he paid in London was soaked with 
paste at a ladder’s top. A few thousand dollars more 
spent on their education by the city taxpayers and 
they would have cut up his Watteau to light their 
pipes. The fallacy of trusting the masses never 
seems to die out. Wilde in a music hall told chance 
young men about Greece. Cockneys from the gal¬ 
lery who did not reconstruct the temples of Athena 
and Diana with calm white columns but saw only 
Socrates’ hand on the shoulder of Alcibiades and the 
seminal activities of the great weak of the Golden 
Age. 

He left the rug and went to the long bookcase. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


81 


Outline of History? No. Gods in Exile? No. 
La Folie de Jesusf No. Cause of an Ice Age? 
No. Suetonius? No. Pater’s Renaissance? No. 
But yes. Mona Lisa in chapter on da Vinci. 
Picture I bought that day at the Louvre pasted in 
the back. Here it is. A twin for Amy. 

He switched off the lights, went into the bedroom 
and pushed up the window. Leaning out over the 
night street he breathed deeply ten times and turned, 
shivering, to his bed. Too cold for the other ten. 
Come along, Lisa. Between the sheets with you. 
Pardon the open window, my love. Your fifteenth 
century ceilings held more cubic inches of air than 
those of a modem flat on the Harlem border. Here 
we supplement from the street. Fresh germs every 
hour. Now listen to the judgment of posterity on 
your portrait. “We all know the face and hands of 
the figure, set in its marble chair, in that circle of 
fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under the 
sea.” Wonder how he arranged his light effects? 
The household of II Giocondo must have been over¬ 
turned—that husband of yours, Lisa, whom I dare¬ 
say you tormented until he sent for Lionardo. “The 
presence that rose so strangely beside the waters is 
expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years 
men had come to desire. Here is the head upon 
which all ‘the ends of the world are come,’ and the 
eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out 
from within the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of 
strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite 


82 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


passions.” I wonder why she smiled. Perhaps at 
the memory of horns on her husband’s distraught 
head? Even dead women will smile for that. “She 
is older than the rocks among which she sits; like 
the vampire, she has been dead many times, and 
learned the secrets of the grave; and trafficked for 
strange webs with Eastern merchants.” 

He turned again to the pasted picture. Lisa’s 
magnificent Medici died the year Columbus found 
Amy’s birth land, a gray forbidding soil. The 
Florence of Lorenzo and the Boston of the Cabots. 
Brunelleschi’s Duomo and Faneuil Hall. II Cor so 
and Commonwealth Avenue. And now, Lisa, I’m 
going to throw you out of bed to pass the night 
on that chair. Missed! I apologize. Make the 
best of the floor, then. Now to sleep. That damned 
light on the corner comes straight to my eyelids. 
Move the pillow. Better. Sleep. Sheep. Count 
one hundred. I daresay she’s in bed, too. Or read¬ 
ing. Not far from here. A Riverside Drive 
apartment house. Alone ? Perhaps an aunt or 
cousin keeps an eye on her. Mother and school, 
college and when father died. Sounds innocent 
enough. But those cinquecento eyes make me 
wonder. A predisposition to follies and calamities, 
plottings in corners, muscles tightening for the 
spring, hissings among serpents. That stone near 
the slave market in Constantinople. It moved or 
fell down or cried out when a woman went by who 
had lied. Some emperor’s sister always made a 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


83 


detour to avoid the Virgin's Stone. But maid or 
otherwise, Miss Amy Fiske has a gentle effluvium, 
deadly as X-rays and as inevitable—an emanation 
that no process but age can check. From where she 
sits reading it trembles through the air and touches 
me on all my surfaces. The curious timbre of her 
voice sounds in my ears. Daniel, she would say. Not 
Dan-yul. Daniel. I refused her telephone number 
so even an invitation to dinner must be written and 
the answer waited for. Information. Operator 
could get number. Five minutes. No, too late. 
Still she knows I’m up half the night and I daresay 
she often dances until dawn. 

He bounded out of bed and walked cloth-shod 
into the living room, there to stand before the 
telephone in indecision, shaking his head, wrinkling 
his high forehead and whistling between his teeth. 
Then he lifted the receiver. 

“I want you to get a number from information, 
Sam. The apartment house at 200 Riverside Drive. 
Call me when they answer." 

The receiver replaced, he began to walk up and 
down, his pale blue eyes wandering over the walls. 
What shall I say? Good evening, Miss Fiske. I 
want to apologize for anything I may have said at 
luncheon that annoyed you. No. Awkward sen¬ 
tence. What’s the matter with me? I needn’t go 
into a panic because I’m going to talk to a girl who 
insulted me. How do you do, Miss Fiske? I 
thought you might find a free evening soon to dine 


8 4 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


with me. No, that’s taking things too much for 
granted, I must apologize first, I suppose. Women 
are like that. They offend and you apologize. How 
will she take the announcement that I am I, speaking 
out of later than midnight? Better not walk too 
far away from the telephone. Sam might think 
I wasn’t going to answer. Slipper off. Never mind. 

The telephone gave out three sharp rings and 
Daniel jumped forward. 

“Is this 200 Riverside Drive?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does Miss Amy Fiske live there?” 

“Who? What’s the name?” 

“Amy Fiske.” 

“Jghnmnt ndlcfshen.” 

“What’s that? Just a minute, don’t ring off! 
Hello!” 

“I’m connecting you, sir.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” Now he’s ringing. 

“Yes ?” Not hers. Yet wire changes sound. 

“Is this Miss Fiske?” 

“No. Do you wish to speak to her?” 

“If you please.” 

“Just a moment. Amy! Someone for you. 

.No, not your mother. It isn’t 

long distance. It’s a man.” 

Daniel’s hand was shaking. Why did she say 
that? Perhaps she will guess who and won’t come. 
Old meddler maiden aunt. Not long distance but 
a man. Same tone she’d use to say ogre. 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


85 


“Hello.” 

“Hell-ump.” Throat closed. Can’t talk. Can’t 
answer coo. 

“I don’t hear you. It’s Sydney, isn’t it? I 
thought you would be coming in tonight, my dear. 
What have you—” 

He pulled the receiver from his ear and hung it 
on the hook. There. That’s done with. Mys- 
terious midnight telephone caller hangs up after 
throat closes. Why didn’t I go on? I don’t know. 
Sydney, my dear. That’s the reason she came to 
speak. For him. Evidently no secret from the 
aunt. Some Fifth Avenue scion probably who 
telephones at any hour. What if the connection 
isn’t broken and she inquires of Sam? He’ll tell 
her who. If bell rings, don’t answer. Sweating all 
over. Can’t get into bed like this. Shower. Run 
under and out. 

Stripping off his pyjamas, he strode into the 
bathroom. Forgot slipper. Get after. Sydney, my 
dear. Coo coo goo. And to me, I shan’t see you 
again. Thank you for my omelette. I’d better look 
at this thing squarely. I’ve become enfevered, it 
seems, of a woman who wants nothing from me 
except my wrist to step on while she climbs to 
economic independence. Knowing this, why do I go 
on? That damned sex thing again, acting through 
new media. That’s it. Somatic need of woman, 
subtle, poisonous, libidinous, mind-eating, energy- 
destroying, in-at-the-death woman. Tomorrow take 


86 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


out that little cashier and kiss her to rid myself of 
Amy Fiske. One the same as another. Except 
Elliot. Transfer her to another department till 
she learns manners. Probably she’s told every man 
in the city room about that card. Oof! Water takes 
breath. Ice. Finnish system better. Graduating 
degrees each bucket-full. Wish Amy Fiske were in 
Finland. Old Rufus did me no favor when he 
sent— 

He stepped from the tub and reached for a bath- 
towel. With long stropping strokes he rubbed his 
body. Sydney, my dear. He’s welcome to that 
name. Probably writes vers libre and thinks hers 
are good. Says he thinks so anyhow. Syd-neeee. 
One of those half-males always hanging about wo¬ 
men. Kissing their hands, sitting on a cushion 
at their feet and handing them their tea. Any pup 
who can manage his feet has privileges. That’s 
the way those women choose their friends. How¬ 
ever, the most discerning of us aren’t much better 
off. Pick our friends from necessity from among 
those who happen to be living in the world at the 
same time. I should like to have known Hisop. 
Lady Mary Montague, George Sand, Voltaire, 
Aspasia, for instance, chattering over tea. Or to 
have met between acts at the opera Hadrian, Pepys, 
the Queen of Sheba, Ninon de l’Enclos, Croesus, 
Aristophanes, Beau Brummel and the Medici family. 
Napoleon? No. Not up to much as a social asset. 
Always asking the women guests why they weren’t 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


87 


pregnant for France. Faustine, too. A bit de- 
clasee, perhaps, but all right for a supper party after 
the Follies. Her guests—let’s see. Lucullus to 
shake bootleg cocktails. How about the Marquis de 
Sade? That is, if his prison engagements didn’t 
interfere. Flis partner, Messalina. And Henry 
the Eighth with Diane of Poitiers, Casanova for 
Catherine of Russia, Nero for Lucrezia Borgia, 
Alexander for Sappho, having tastes in common. 
Then Cellini for the female Pope, Joan —Giovanni 
ventidue. Aubrey Beardsley for Salome. Louis 
Fourteenth for Semiramis. Rabelais and Agrippina. 
Heliogabalus and Oscar. Mona Lisa and Daniel 
Geer. 

The telephone rang, two sustained rings and a 
short one that followed like a hiccough. Daniel, 
buttoning the collar of his pyjama coat, stiffened 
against the washbowl. She’s found out. Ringing 
me back. Should have warned Sam. Her de¬ 
tective instinct roused—like finding my restaurant. 
Won’t answer. That’s best. Keep out of trouble. 
Never could explain. 

He went into the living room and walked about 
the telephone, looking at it with anxious eyes. It 
rang again, a long exasperated summons. He 
walked away and sat down in the padded chair by 
the reading lamp. Persistent red-head, persistent 
black-face, combine your colors ad lib. A man’s 
house is his castle. Curious sensation, being trap¬ 
ped. Used to have it in class when I thought my 


88 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


turn was coming. And that day in the chess 
tournament when Dobbey advanced the queen’s 
knight’s pawn. 

The elevator door clanged in the hallway outside. 
Light steps advanced and halted. Daniel’s doorbell 
rang. Sam. Come for an explanation. I’ll 
give him a drink and fifty cents to shoot at craps. 

Toes clinging to loose slippers, he went to the 
door and pulled it open. A girl stood outside who 
stared up at him from beneath a flopping hat-brim. 
He stepped back, leaving a slipper that lay like a 
barbican for him between invader and refuge. 
“Pardon,” he said, “I thought it was—” 

“Hello,” said the girl. “Your coon didn’t want 
to let me up when you didn’t answer your ’phone. 
But I showed him this and told him I had a date 
with you.” She held out a card engraved Daniel 
Boone Geer and he saw his address written there in 
his own handwriting. 

“Where did you get that?” He tried to take it 
from her hand but she stepped over his slipper and 
walked past him to look about the room with eager 
curiosity. 

Leaving the door open, he hurried after her in 
protest. “Please I’m not dressed—” 

She turned and gave him a long scrutiny that 
began with his light disordered hair, wandered down 
his striped pyjamas and ended at a rather large bare 
foot that rested on the rug. “Oh, don’t mind a 
little thing like that,” she said. “Say, you left 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


89 


your shoe over there.” Now her face was toward 
the light and she was smiling with fixed dark eyes 
and full-blown painted lips. 

He stared. The little swindler of the restaurant! 
He frowned his recognition at her. She’s a week 
late. What does she want ? She didn’t come to give 
me back my five dollars, that’s certain. 

Her smile began to fade from its security and she 
moved forward uneasily. “Don’t you remember 
me? The other night—I said I’d come here after 
but I couldn’t get out. My mother was sick. She’s 
sick yet. And me— I lost my job.” 

He nodded. So that’s it. Wants money for 
mother. Or more likely for some lover waiting 
around the corner for the fleecing. “Yes, I re¬ 
member you. You took five dollars from me,” he 
said. 

The girl laughed, more as at a joke they both 
shared than for embarrassment. “That’s right. Say, 
have you got anything to eat? I’m hungry.” She 
pulled off her hat and laid it on the table. The 
clipped points of black hair fell about her forehead 
and ears. She smoothed them and began to hum, 
smiling and expectant. 

Daniel regarded her with cold unmoving eyes. 
Vulgar little gutter-rat. I must have been beside 
myself the other night, waiting for her in the wind. 
He folded his arms. Now get her out without 
making a scene that will float down the stairs to 
Sam’s ears. 


90 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


She was beginning to look at him with suspicion 
while waiting for him to speak. She thrust out her 
chin. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” she said 
in a rough strumming voice. “Why do you act 
so funny? You ain’t sick, are you?” 

Wincing, he spoke in his severe office manner. 
“I am not dressed to receive visitors and I did not 
ask you to come in.” If that isn’t enough, I’ll push 
her out of here by force. In her environment she’s 
used to vehement invitations to come in or get out. 

Hands on hips, she gave a strident laugh. “You 
wasn’t so particular the other night when you was 
after me to come here.” She crossed the rug and 
came to his side. “Come out of it,” she said in a 
coaxing tone. “Don’t ;be mad at me. I couldn’t 
help it if my mother was sick, could I?” She laid 
stubby fingers, ungloved and red from the cold, on 
his arm and stroked his sleeve up and down, smiling 
at him with the eyes of an impudent newsboy. 

Daniel, white and stiff, jerked away. “Don’t you 
understand plain language? I can make it plainer 
for you.” He pointed to the door. “Get the hell 
out of here and don’t come back.” 

She dropped her hand and studied his face, tight 
with anger and distaste. “Aw, now, be reasonable. 
I tell you I couldn’t help—” 

He went to the table and brought back her hat. 
“Now get out,” he said. 

She took it slowly. “Here’s your hat, what’s 
your hurry, eh?” She pulled it down over her ears, 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


9 i 


still gazing at him, unsmiling and unangered, in 
growing astonishment. “All right—if that’s the 
way you feel/’ She started away, turning at the 
door. “Well, you certainly must have fell in love to 
be acting this way. All I got to say is she’s welcome 
to you.” She threw up her head, made an impudent 
grimace to mock his fixed air of anger and passed 
into the hall. 

Daniel stared after her. In love? Am I in love? 
Perhaps she’s right. That would explain my fevers 
and changes. Last week I burned for that low girl 
of the streets. Tonight the cornucopia of sex was 
open and I could have poured forth breasts and 
arms, thighs and delicately padded retreats. Why 
did I not? Simply because her hair was not red, 
her eyes held no reserves and she did not speak in 
the voice for which my ears are vigilant. Amy. 
Amy Fiske. You have killed a happy hedonist. 

He listened to heels tapping on stone until sound 
no longer came up the stairway. Then he closed the 
door and threw himself into the big chair to gaze 
at the ceiling with vacant sleepless eyes. 


VII 

The door behind Daniel opened and closed. He 
stopped whistling and went on washing his hands. 

“Good morning, Mr. Geer.” 

Daniel looked up and nodded. The young re¬ 
porter moved further into the room. 

“Just heard someone saying we’ve been picking 
up. That’s fine.” His bland face, diffident and 
admiring, turned to Daniel for comment. 

“Thanks.” Daniel whirled the towel on its 
roller, seeking an unimprinted surface. The re¬ 
porter, embarrassed, paused and shuffled his feet. 
He passed Daniel and went through a small door 
beyond. 

Daniel pulled down his cuffs, his mouth twitching 
on the way to a smile of cynicism. Guess I must be 
getting hard-boiled. Five years ago I would have 
been turning somersaults if the circulation had 
responded to me like that. Now I feel like a female 
fly whose egg output is five thousand more on 
Wednesday than it was on Tuesday. Both of us 
engaged in multiplication in danger of a descending 
swatter. Trainer must have heard the news. He 
looks glum today. If I’d listened to him I would 


92 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


93 


have left the sporting department in statu quo, 
abandoned my idea for the subway campaign and 
kept that demoded moralist in charge of dramatics. 

The open skylight that sprang above the men’s 
and women’s wash rooms admitted voices and the 
sound of rushing water. . . . “left his door long 
enough to eat . . . . get that idea and 

you . . 

He fastened his gaudy cuff buttons, the gift of 
the Newark staff—“To D. B. G.” in black letters. 
Elliot in there with one of the others. Not so stiff 
when my eye is removed. Knows how to be pleasant 
when she likes. Wonder why she’s always watching 
around my door. If she weren’t so good at her job 
I’d send her to the right about march. She’s laugh¬ 
ing again. One of those stories, I suppose. But 
when a man tells them one they stiffen their back¬ 
bones. Hypocrites by nature and convention. 
“. . . saying goodbye like a movie actress . . . 
holding her hand. . . . wanted at a conference I 
said and. . . . picked it out of the basket. . . . red 
in the face. . . . temper . . . . Rose, some 

day he’ll . . .” “. . . worst temper but . . 

“. . . stuck on him if you ask. . .” 

He buttoned his coat and marched out. Passing 
the city desk he beckoned to Trainer who followed 
him, swinging his arms in faded pink cotton that 
puffed out from the tight armholes of his vest and 
bore the rings of summer sweatings. 

“Want me, Mr. Geer?” 


94 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Daniel caught up his hat and swung about. “‘Yes. 
Transfer Miss Elliot to another department and 
give me that dark girl—the one with loose hair.” 

“You mean Miss Parks? But she’s not so good 
as—” 

“How should I know her name? Attend to it at 
once, please. I’ll want her after luncheon.” He 
brushed by Trainer and went out with quick steps, 
head lowered against salutations from reporters, 
telephone operators, engravers from the art depart¬ 
ment and proof readers, circulating in the city room 
or posted in gossiping groups of selected interests 
in the corridor. 

Outside it was snowing. Fat flakes clung to his 
cheeks like wet lips. Through their thickness and 
motion he saw the geometrical lines of buildings 
across the square, blurred into romance. The white 
weightless flakes, falling with dignified eagerness, 
merged their numbers at last into an undivided 
covering for the pavement which received and 
silenced the feet of men and the hooves of dray 
horses bound for Brooklyn Bridge. 

He put up his umbrella, a large one of black 
cotton, bought two years since in a Newark shop 
during a hail storm. I’ll walk .before luncheon. Too 
angry to eat now. Probably did Elliot a favor by 
transferring her. She has grudges that date back 
to my first dictation. I’ll work better now that the 
atmosphere of hatred is removed. Saying goodbye 
like a movie actress. Cinema the only standard of 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


95 


stenographers. They can’t understand a back¬ 
ground like Amy’s but see only a reflection of 
meanly patterned manner. 

“Shine, sir?” 

“Not on a day like this.” Two inches deep 
already. Wind rising and colder. That boy’s shirt 
open at the neck. Better circulation than mine. 
Always cold even at his age. Red nose, numb feet 
and fingers. Sledding in discomfort. Others en¬ 
joy it. Even the girls. They say a woman’s fat 
protects her from cold. As long distance swimming. 
Then how do they stand heat so well? More en¬ 
durance the answer. Exercise a hateful duty to 
me. Like this walk now. Starts the blood. Mine 
flows better in the pleasant months of release. Re¬ 
lease from cold. From life. From Elliot. From 
thoughts of Amy Fiske. A movie actress. That 
damned little gossip. Here’s one of the picture 
theatres she admires. 

He stopped to examine a poster over which the 
word TODAY had been pasted. Looks like a Nick 
Carter serial. Dead woman on a park bench, blood 
flowing from her mouth. Man snatching a mask 
from her face. He’s wearing a mahogany colored 
vest, grey striped trousers, red and white shirt, 
white canvas shoes with red straps. A cinema 
director’s naive conception of a passional crime 
costume. Amy saying goodbye like a movie actress. 
Would that have so angered me had Elliot said it 
of some other girl? Decidedly not. That’s a bad 


96 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


sign. I must end all this by throwing the nuances of 
Amy Fiske back into the fifteenth century where 
they belong. 

Bracing the umbrella over his shoulder against 
the wind, he turned and began stamping his feet. 
A girl, slight and with a rhythmic walk, came 
down the street into the wind, one hand making a 
shelter for her face. Her fur coat was caked with 
snow. Water dripped from the brim of her hat. 
Daniel looked up and his nostrils and eyes sprang 
wide. He took bold steps toward her, hesitated, 
stopped. The slender fur figure swayed on into 
whirls of snow. Through the thick gusts that 
fell between them, he watched her grow blurred 
and small, blinking after her into the white 
storm. 

He broke into a run. His umbrella tugged at his 
hand as he raced into the wind, steering him into 
unexpected balances and collisions for which he 
took no time to apologize. Snow flew into his 
mouth and stung his eyes. At the corner of the 
street his anguished haste brought him abreast of 
her. He broke his pace to a walk and bent his 
head to hers, watching her breathe in small gasps of 
distress, eyes half-closed to shut out the beating 
snow which had wet her face and hair like rain. 

“Miss Fiske—may I—you’re very wet—” 

“Mr. Geer!” She stood still and turned her back 
to the wind. “What dreadful weather! And I 
have no umbrella.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


97 


“Then come under mine,” said Daniel. 

She opened her purse and took out a handker¬ 
chief. While she dried her face Daniel covered 
her with the umbrella, panting from his run, his pale 
eyes wide to mark every gesture. “I was almost 
afraid to speak to you,” he said. 

Amy smiled at him with her eyes. “Nonsense,” 
she said. Her voice seemed less metallic in the 
curtains of snow and under the tent of the umbrella 
had all the close intimacy of a handclasp. “Will you 
take me to the subway, Mr. Geer?” 

He shivered. “Yes, I will be glad to—yes,” he 
said. Throat dry. Hard to speak. Wish there 
were a cure for blushing. Trembling in my knees. 
Pull myself together and not act like a fool. It’s 
awkward because I can’t ask where she’s been 
without running a risk of having her talk about a 
position. Probably she was at the Standard of 
Unity offices asking for a chance. 

They began to walk. “You are very kind,” Amy 
said. She put out her hand and slipped it through 
his arm in confident comradeship. Without volition 
his muscles tightened and pressed her hand against 
his side. I’m made divinely drunk by her touch. I 
burn even in this cold wetness. For the first time I 
perceive the bitter beauty of snow. I could strip 
off the ugly garments of this practical age and roll 
naked in that stinging powder. Her hand sends 
fluid fire to my heart and a winged impulse to my 
feet. I could walk on through wind and ice, my 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


98 

senses enchanted by her hand at my heart, and think 
I wandered in an elated meadow. 

“This isn’t one of your communicative days,” 
said Amy. “I hope all goes well at your office?” 

“Very well,” said Daniel. “I was thinking. 
Now you’ll say again that I am rude.” 

“Not if you tell me what you were thinking,” 
said Amy. Her fingers on his arm urged him to 
speak and he turned to meet her green eyes filled 
with secret understanding. 

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t dare. Yet—if you wish 
— This is part of it. I was seeing for the first 
time that snow could be beautiful and I wondered 
if I could find relief if it should touch me—com¬ 
pletely.” 

He looked away to avoid her quick question, 
“Relief from what?” 

“From my thoughts—from emotions that I don’t 
understand. I can’t explain. Perhaps women never 
feel what I mean.” 

Amy laughed, the metallic sound again come into 
her voice. “Perhaps they don’t feel it so often, 
Mr. Geer.” Her fingers no longer pressed his 
arm and she walked, eyes hidden and lips curled 
slightly as if at a cynical memory. 

His face chilled and he stared ahead at the sub¬ 
way kiosk, grey through the snow-filled air. Now 
she’ll think me an egoist like the rest talking un¬ 
endingly about myself. What I feel, how well I’m 
doing in business, anecdotes of college, my average 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


99 


golf score, what I think, if anything, about every¬ 
thing. Shall I tell her I’d rather talk of her? 
No—she’d think me impertinent. 

They stopped to perform the gestures of parting. 
Now she'll go down those steps and return to the 
small circumstances of a life unknown to me. How 
green and water-bright are her eyes! Trying to 
read my thoughts. We’re still together under our 
shelter but here where men and women pass in con¬ 
fusion there is no longer that feeling of being 
isolated in a white cloud. 

“Come to tea,” Amy said. “I’ll send you a note.” 
For the first time since their meeting she smiled and 
he saw the shining pointed teeth in their framing of 
thin red. She turned and left him receiving the 
force of the storm on his bared head. He watched 
her pass down among the unimportant figures of her 
background, his cotton umbrella trailing down from 
her hand. 


VIII 


An hibernal wind untempered by the pale after¬ 
noon sunlight blew across Riverside Drive but 
Daniel lingered there, walking with unwilling steps. 
I’m eaten by fevers that have taken my volition. 
Instead of sitting among my books I quakingly 
advance on number two hundred Riverside Drive 
shivering from nerves and this devilish wind. The 
first time I’ve been out of control since my awaken¬ 
ing fifteen years ago. Gladys. Over-plump and 
protuberant-eyed. Youth and my freshman taste 
made her seem as sweet as the land of Lebanon. 
That morning in class when I touched her skirt 
secretly. Old Ironsides saw my gesture and called 
on me in puritanical voice. Youth and its enemy 
knowledge. Fetters in place of fetes. Merciless 
mounds of learning raised by imperious older gen¬ 
erations to satisfy their instinct for pedagogy. 
Inscriptions over college doors should read 
CAVEAT EMPTOR—the purchase is at your 
own risk. It is not here that youth will find the 
golden fleece. Number two hundred. My golden 
fleece within. 

He stopped before a wide stone door and stared 


IOO 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


IOI 


at the neatly cut number above it. Two children 
in fawn-colored coats for their Sunday walk came 
from the doorway, their nurse fatly bustling behind 
them. The boy began to shout and run. The 
girl stood by Daniel’s side and gazed at the ball of 
tissue paper in his hand. He turned up his collar 
and walked on. Even that child sees I am ridic¬ 
ulously situated—windblown with anachronistic 
violets held sentimentally upright, not walking far 
enough away from the door to matter, not daring 
to enter. No agamous being would understand my 
feverish ailment. Turn back. Succeed by driving 
feet. But calmly, calmly. She must not see in¬ 
decision and confusion. Probably there will be a 
Bostonian atmosphere of Henry James and faint 
aristocratic breathings, legends of birth and blood 
running blue. True blue. Bloody blue. Let them 
have it. Perhaps it’s pleasantly stimulating to re¬ 
flect on one’s cultured forebears. Mother had some 
ancestors, she says, that came over with Lafayette. 
De something. Might have it looked up and refer to 
him casually. Hope the aunt doesn’t say, “Geer? 
Geer? Curious name. One of the Frothingham 
Geers of Marblehead?” I’ve read they do that 
through a lorgnette. Hall boy looking at me. 
Might give him the violets. No. I’ll be valiant— 
like my ancestor De-What’s-His-Name. Boy, an¬ 
nounce the Chevalier de Geer of an inextinguishable 
royaume. 

Upstairs a maid opened the door and received 


102 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Daniel’s coat. He followed her through the ob¬ 
scurity of a long padded hall and into the formality 
of a Venitian drawing-room. Her voice meets me 
at the door. Not alone. The grimalkin is at her 
post, guarding with uneasy claws. 

Amy's profile detached itself from the dark 
wood of a high backed chair. She arose, clothed 
in Confucian yellow, and came to Daniel’s hesitant 
hand. 

“Did you have my note? Thank you for the 
roses. They were beautiful.” 

“Is someone with you? Your aunt—” 

The lights in Amy’s eyes became fixed. “Aunt? 
What aunt? I have no aunt, Mr. Geer.” She led 
him across the room and spoke in her metallic voice. 
“I want you to know Mr. Harrington, Mr. Geer.” 

A tall young man with a classic head dragged 
himself up from his cushions and held out a hand 
that drooped at the wrist. His eyes, brown and 
deeply set, wandered over Daniel with indifference 
and went to watch Amy as she placed herself at 
the tea-table. Then he sank back and arranged him¬ 
self into an impeccable attitude. Daniel looked from 
chair to chair, sat down near Amy and stood again, 
holding out the violets. 

“I hope these are not frozen,” he said and went 
back to his chair. 

Amy murmured “Thank you” and Daniel stared 
at her hands. Forgot to take off that damned tissue 
paper. Another blunder. I’ll apologize when that 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


103 


tailor’s model goes. His face swelled with blood 
and he glanced at the young man who was looking 
at some blue hyacinths that stood in a white por¬ 
celain bowl at his shoulder. From him probably. 
Supercilious eyebrows. He’s thinking of his rarer 
taste in flowers. I should never have thought of cut 
hyacinths. Can he be Sydney-my-dear ? A languid 
catamite, he looks, in need of a hair-cut. I wonder 
what women see in men of that type. They put them 
on a cushion and feed them a bowl of cream and 
listen to them quote poetry, I daresay. He doesn’t 
like my intrusion, that’s plain. Probably suggested 
she say not at home. 

“How is your newspaper, Mr. Geer? Do its 
needs still transcend those of humanity?” asked 
Amy. 

The young man turned his consummate profile 
from the hyacinths and examined Daniel’s ready¬ 
made suit and haphazard tie as he spoke. “Oh, do 
you write? How interesting!” 

“No, I don’t,” said Daniel. 

“Mr. Geer is an editor—a very frank and blunt 
person,” put in Amy with a nod of emphasis. 

“An editor? That requires a great deal of con¬ 
centration, I’m sure,” said the young man with frank 
malice. 

Amy frowned at him and lifted a silver tea-pot 
from the tray. “How do you like your tea, Mr. 
Geer?” 

“Thank you. No tea,” said Daniel. 


104 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

“You’re making a mistake. This is no ordinary 
tea. It’s from China, green and with jasmine 
flowers. An expert’s special mixture.” 

“No, thank you,” said Daniel, his mouth tight. 
I hope he doesn’t guess why I refuse. Taking tea 
an art he has perfected from daily sipping among 
mirrors and smart women. My tea technique has 
never been tested. I’ll drop no spoons and saucers 
for his malicious mirth. His face changes as he 
watches her brightness, his eyes as pensive as a 
calf’s. He wants two lumps of sugar and cream. 
I knew he liked cream. Cushions and cream. 

Sitting with knees pressed together and fingers 
twisted, Daniel waited while Amy filled cups with 
gracious gestures and a flow of bright yellow 
sleeves about her hands. The young man sat in 
careless elegance, slim-waisted, a half-smile on his 
Greek lips, a spatted ankle in gentle motion. 

“I found a charming thing yesterday by Gaultier 
de Coincy. I must bring it to you. Of course 
you know him, Mr. Geer?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Daniel. “I have no time for 
obscure writers. I work for a living.” Let him 
digest that with his tea. She eyes me for my tone 
thinking rude again. 

“Oh, yes. So many people do,” said the young 
man. “Er—ah—was it raining when you came in?” 

“No,” said Daniel. Damn his soul. He might 
just as well ask me “What can you talk about?” as 
to say “Was it raining when you came in?” That’s 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


105 


how I treat Andrew. Now my turn to be patronized. 
Justice .balanced. What is she thinking? Does 
she want me to go and leave her to an hour with 
the muses new and old? No, or she would have told 
the hall-boy to keep the bull out of the china. I 
move too rudely for these two delicate ornaments. 

“Elizabeth saw you at Kuan-Yin’s yesterday,” 
said Amy. “She said you were wearing your in¬ 
flexible bargaining expression. Did you buy some¬ 
thing?” She turned to Daniel. “Mr. Harrington 
has a rather famous collection of Chinese pottery.” 

“Is that so?” said Daniel more pleasantly. “I’ve 
seen two or three Ming examples. I suppose you 
have any number of them.” 

Mr. Harrington looked into his tea and stirred it. 
“Ah, not exactly. They’re—well, a bit late, you 
know.” 

“I see,” said Daniel. That will teach me to hold 
my tongue. I should have known better than to 
expose myself. He gives lamb-like bleats when she 
looks his way but he’s like a snake in his ill-will 
toward me. I won’t speak again until he goes. An 
aunt and a forest of family trees would have been 
better than his poison. Damned china fancier. She’s 
looking at me. I’ll have to say something. But 
what ? Something. Hurry. Kill the pause. Some¬ 
thing general. Theatre. 

“Do you go to the theatre often, Miss Fiske?” 

“Is there something to see this winter?” darted 
the young man. 


io6 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

Amy laughed, leaning back with relaxed round 
body. “Don’t mind him, Mr. Geer. He loathes the 
theatre. His tastes are few and rare. A real 
eclectic.” 

“He’s quite right there,” said Daniel. “The 
theatre is operated only for the kitchen.” 

“Ah, yes,” murmured Mr. Harrington, disdainful 
dark eyes on Daniel. He rose with a long waving 
motion. “I must be running on, Amy. I’m dining 
the Marchesino tonight. Goodbye.” He nodded at 
Daniel and went to Amy, saying as he lifted her 
hand, “I’ll bring you the verses.” 

Amy looked over at Daniel and while he stood 
in indecision before his chair she left him and went 
across the room with the young man. They stopped 
near the door, he swaying as he talked, a hand 
smoothing the back of his head, the other moving in 
languid small gestures. Daniel sat down and lis¬ 
tened for his words. 

“. . . . Adam of Saint-Victor . . . mediaeval 
philosophy . . . rolling Latin sonorities . . . 

. . . west portal of Chartres . . . living sym¬ 
bols . . . poetry . . . the Virgin ... his 
simple rhythms . . . Cantico del Sole . . 

He began to beat the air as if he held a baton. 
“. . . consolatrix miserorum, suscitiatrix mortu- 
orum . . .” Amy raised a hand, crying, “But 
no organ! Plaint chant . . . San Paulo fuori le 
Mura . . . Chartres . . .” They were inclined to¬ 
ward each other’s faces, yellow brushing against 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


107 

dark brown of perfect tailoring as they passed 
through the door. 

Daniel looked about him with dazed face. Latin 
verse. The roar of the presses more familiar to me. 
Cultural rarities for them while all I know is how to 
get a newspaper into the street on time. Rugs from 
Asia. My poor little Mexico. An Italian primitive 
—school unknown to my ignorance. My cheap 
Hiroshige. All those books there probably first 
editions. Must look at them. Breach of manners? 
I don’t know. I don’t care. Persian art. Picture of 
Darius stylus on cover, beard in formal curls. This 
soldier was a Persian slave. Dead he is as great as 
great Darius. Greek fragment. Swinburne, too. 
Implacable Aphrodite. Nice adjective I always re¬ 
member. Viollet-le-Duc. Stained glass authority. 
She’s a 'long time out there. How interested in 
him? Vases and verses instead of a day’s work. 
Despising him, I squirmed for shame, conscious of 
my social deficiencies. I am really as crude a man 
as father or Bob or Andrew. Ready-made clothes, 
no tea-tabie ease, no small talk, no erudition, no 
hobbies. Not even a decent college. That man 
probably went to Oxford. I’m out of place here. 
Perhaps they’re saying so now, laughing at me as 
they talk in the hall. 

Amy came back through the growing dimness 
of the room, her yellow dress moving among the 
dark chairs and heavily carved tables. As she 
passed the window her hair caught at the dying 


io8 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

sunlight and kept for a moment its brightness. 
Then she touched the wall and a glow appeared 
in a wrought iron lantern over her head. She 
sat down beneath it and looked through the 
shadows at Daniel an arm’s length from her 
side. 

“Now we can talk,” she said, clasping her hands 
about her knee. “Tell me—why did you think I 
had an aunt?” 

He made a confused and awkward gesture. I 
knew that would come. Detective instinct. Next 
she’ll connect me with the mysterious telephone call. 
“I don’t know why I invented an aunt,” he said. 
“Probably because I didn’t think you would be 
living alone.” 

“No more am I,” she said. “I was lent this place 
by a cousin of my mother’s who is at Palm Beach. 
Elizabeth Corning is staying with me—an old 
friend. As soon as I find something to do I must 
move. Where I don’t know. Small apartment, 
furnished room, garret perhaps.” She smiled and 
spread out her hands, head tilted back under the 
glow of the lamp. Her eyelids, threaded with veins 
of blue and red and purple, were as thin as if they 
had been scraped. Still smiling, she sighed and bent 
her head. 

Daniel in his moyen-age chair watched the lights 
and shadows on red hair and yellow dress, his 
nostrils dilated to catch her perfume, his hands in 
trembling awkard pressure on his knees. The forces 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


109 

of my repressed years shaking me from reasoned 
processes. I must go. Go now. 

He stood and at his movement Amy held out her 
-hand to him and smiled. “Ah, not yet,” she said. 
He seized her fingers and pressed them between his 
palms. His eyebrows strained up and his pale eyes 
fixed themselves on her face, staring at it as if 
they were being compelled outward from his head. 
He began to tremble in great paroxysms. 

“Amy, Amy, Amy,” he said in a frightened voice, 
stopping only to stumble on again, driven out of his 
volition. “Amy—I love you.” He went on his 
knees by her side, still gripping her fingers under 
whitened knuckles. 

She gave a cry and pulled away her hand. “My 
scarab,” she said. “You’re hurting me.” 

He looked down at the red mark sunk into her 
finger as deeply as a cut and laid his congested face 
over her hand. Her perfumed fingers lay under his 
mouth and he breathed through them. “Love you— 
night and day—wonderful Amy—not angry—oh, 
tell me not—never before—oh, no, no, no,—others 
—pf00000f—but this—what joy—heat—all motion 
in one—Amy—Amy—” 

She pressed upward against his face with her 
hands and said in a voice that was measured and dry, 
“What do you want of me?” 

Daniel, stiff and shaking at her feet, lifted his 
head from her knees. “My God, I don’t know.” 
His eyes, bloodshot and half closed, went from her 


no 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


cryptic eyes to the red line of her mouth, to her high 
pointed breasts. “I—I want to marry you—I 
suppose. I never thought I’d want to marry—until 
now. Yes, that’s it. Marriage. You—” 

She jerked at his arm. ‘‘Get up. Elizabeth Corn¬ 
ing is coming.” He stared at her from blind eyes 
and pulled himself to his feet. Amy left her chair 
and made him a sign. “Your hair—” 

He went to the window, dishevelled, stumbling. 
Some sort of seizure. What have I done? I must 
be mad. Inexplicable. Ungovernable. Her voice 
soft. Her eyes green as that day in the restaurant 
when she said “Forgive me.” Pointed nails did 
not scratch. Can’t be introduced like this. Keep 
Coming out. Smooth hair in glass over Chinese 
print. I’ve just been insane. Like epilepsy. Was 
she frightened? Wonder she didn’t ring for an 
ambulance. Be calm. Forget perfume, mouth, 
hands, round knees, Ready to face both? No. 
They’ll speak in a moment. Laughing at door. At 
me? That’s why they call shame burning. It 
scorches the skin and boils the blood. Boiling blood 
in my head. Room not lighted. She won’t turn 
lights on, remembering me— 

“Mr. Geer!” 

He turned his face into the room and as he ad¬ 
vanced to greet Miss Corning he projected from the 
light that entered from the street behind him a gro¬ 
tesque griffin-like shadow that rose against the 
hangings on the wall. Miss Corning, a tall thin 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


hi 


woman with keen eyes, shook hands with a brief 
clasp and almost immediately sat down near the 
lamp. Daniel, fixed on a long ochre swirl in the 
rug, looked toward the door. Escape. Escape. 
Can’t survive an ordered conversation. Dizzy with 
boiling blood. Nausea too. Must have air. Both 
looking at me. Amy not smiling. Other question¬ 
ing. Say something. Say, can you see— 

“Sorry to go just as you come in—but work at 
the office is waiting—” Not bad. It slipped out 
without my knowing. 

“Of course,” said Miss Corning. “Amy has told 
me how busy—” 

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled. “Well, good¬ 
bye.” He bowed and went to the door. Long 
room. Long walk. Legs shaky. She’s coming 
behind me. I’m ill—sick—what will she say? Out 
quickly. Shake myself out of this. Be normal. My 
coat. Put it on outside. Lethargy. Out of here 
before another brainstorm. He threw his coat over 
his arm and caught up his hat. 

Amy came to his side and held out her hand. He 
stepped away from her toward the door but she 
touched his arm. “Mr. Geer—” 

He turned and bent toward her, swaying a little, 
his face dark with blood. 

“No, no,” she whispered. “I’ll write you tonight.” 
She took his hand and at her slight pressure his eyes 
closed. 

“Amy, Amy, Amy—” His arm groped for her. 


112 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


She opened the door for him and her eyelids fell 
slowly to screen her enigmatic gaze. He went 
through the door and turned to see her again. She 
stood waiting, her hands calmly at her side, her 
head bent a little, her face pale and secret above the 
yellow of her dress. 


PART II 



I 

“What time do we arrive ?” Amy turned in her 
padded green chair and looked at Daniel from be¬ 
neath the looped edges of her veil. Before he could 
draw out his watch she was again questioning the 
field that moved by their windows, her eyes gray 
in the gray afternoon light and ringed about by 
wistful mauve shadows. 

“In half an hour,” said Daniel. He replaced his 
watch and squirmed forward in the fat chair. “Are 
you tired?” He put out his hand, let it hover above 
her knee and drew it back. 

“No,” she said, “but trains always bore me. In 
Europe one can smoke at least.” 

“You can smoke at tea,” he said. “We’ll have 
tea as soon as we get in.” He hesitated, put out 
his hand again and laid it on her knee. “Don’t be 
bored, please—our first day—” He glanced across 
the aisle and pressed her knee. He seized the list¬ 
less gloved hand near him. “Amy,” he said, pulling 
at her. “Amy.” 

She turned and came forward to him. “Yes, 
Daniel?” 

He raised himself halfway from his chair and 
115 


Ii6 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


kissed her on the mouth. As she drew away with 
a quick movement of her head the train lurched 
and sent him stumbling into the aisle, his hand drag¬ 
ging away the orchids she wore. He picked them 
up, fragile, purple, moist. “I’m sorry,” he said. 
“That was awkward of me.” He put the flowers on 
her knees and set to brushing the shins of his new 
brown suit, presently lifting a red and embarrassed 
face to hers. 

She disregarded his activities, looking beyond him 
with impersonal eyes as if accepting the apology 
of a stranger who had stumbled over her foot. “Oh, 
not in public, please,” she said. “Really, Daniel, 
I—,” She turned to the window a frown of dis¬ 
pleasure creasing the skin between her eyes. “All 
that is monotonous before it is changed by spring,” 
she said after a moment. “But I could ride through 
fresh green country for hours.” 

Daniel passed his handkerchief over his high fore¬ 
head. He poked it back into his pocket and sat 
twisting his fingers. “But, Amy, it wasn’t in 
public,” he protested, leaning toward the pale pro¬ 
file. “See—ours are the last two seats in the car. 
And no one opposite.” 

“It’s the feeling of being in public,” she said. “I 
suppose I’m sensitive about such things. I feel as 
if everyone were watching us and saying—well, 
you know the usual pleasantries—” She blushed 
faintly and moved in her chair. “Please hand me 
that small bag, Daniel.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


ii 7 

He lifted it down from the rack and placed it on 
his chair, standing beside her while she took out a 
book of soft red leather from folds of silk and lace. 
Daniel’s eyes fastened on a pair of slippers, gray 
brocade and gray fur, that lay resting on each other 
like two curious kittens asleep in perfumed security 
and warmth. 

“Thank you,” she said. Her lips parted in a smile, 
abstract and unreflective. 

At this tepid signal Daniel crushed her hand in 
his, bending above her in an adoring arc of brown 
tweed. “To think you are really my wife—willing 
to be alone—” 

She pulled away her hand. “The conductor wants 
to pass, Daniel. Please sit down.” She bent her 
head and opened the book. 

He replaced the bag in the rack and sat down. Of 
course she’s nervous and sensitive. Every girl is 
when on her honeymoon. She blushed, her cheeks 
changing their temperature in indication of inex¬ 
perience. That cold manner comes from training, 
not familiarity with men. A relief to know Sydney 
is married. Otherwise she might have been in¬ 
terested in him. Furry little slippers, open to re¬ 
ceive warm white feet. They looked new. Perhaps 
she bought them to please my eyes—with my check. 
Not many girls would have been so frank about 
money. They would have given excuses and put 
off the marriage. Mother waited a year until she 
could fill her linen chest. “Thank you, Daniel.” 


n8 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

Dan-i-el. That was the first time she kissed me, 
check fluttering to the rug. Not to tell her mother 
about it. She’d make a row, Amy thinks. My wife 
thinks. My wife. “Let me introduce you to my 
wife, Mr. Bird.” He’ll open his eyes. So will 
Trainer. I’ll parade her around the office when she 
comes to fetch me for dinner. Her mother will be 
furious. She must have the letter by now. Prob¬ 
ably wanted her to marry a pedigreed case of gout. 
She’ll mourn for having missed the pleasant grief 
of orange blossom and Mendelssohn. A fancy dis¬ 
play of mumble-jumble in their episcopal church in 
Boston. Glad Amy is no church hound. Had 
enough of that in my life with father. Religion 
like a fungus growth in his mind. He’ll be in a 
famous rage when he hears. Amy must guess why 
I didn’t arrange a family meeting. I couldn’t have 
endured her worldly eyes on mother’s hands. 
Fathers grammar and ill-humor. Worse now he’s 
failing. Bob still sore. My refusal of a double 
wedding didn’t set very well. They must under¬ 
stand that Amy is out of their class. Effie and Amy, 
brides at a double wedding in Newark! Afterward 
a family meal. Effie’s deaf brother in the coal busi¬ 
ness. Ruth, Andrew and the three sourlings. An¬ 
drew’s sly hints about progeny. Mother talking 
about my boyhood. Father’s fears that all my salary 
going to my wife. My wife. She’s my wife. 

He gazed at her face, bent on her book with mild, 
impersonal pleasure. Baudelaire. Her taste is as 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


119 

admirable as her breeding. How possessed, how 
calm! To look at her is to think of the arrogancies 
of an empire, galleons of gold, hennins with floating 
veils, falcons and palfreys, lutes, spinnets and flageo¬ 
lets. She’s as delicately haughty as a Donatello 
bust. Old wine in her veins for my inebriation. 
She will be charming tonight. A passionate potion. 

His eyes left her face to linger on the flesh of 
her throat, spreading down, satin-smooth. The 
miracle of womens’ softness. They make scepters 
of their skins. They mount to thrones on epidermal 
steps. Under glass the scientist studies gaping pores 
and hairs of monstrous size, but the poet lays his 
fingers on a velvet plane and indites strophes to a 
strumpet. 

He examined the luxury of her suit, the fur coat 
behind her, its gold cloth lining veiled with chiffon, 
the silk ankles, the narrow shoes with their bright 
buckles. His eyes became contracted with calcula¬ 
tions. She must be wearing a thousand dollars 
worth of clothes. Not very practical, I’m afraid. 
She’ll have to learn economy. I mustn’t tell her my 
salary. Hold a tight rein on expenses. Every man 
wants to save enough to go into business for him¬ 
self some day. Spend so much, save so much. 
Later when I get a raise we’ll move into a larger 
apartment. Might refurnish the bedroom when she 
goes to Boston. Wonder if she sews. I should 
like to come home and find her under my reading 
lamp with something white in her lap. A pity 



120 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


women don’t embroider any more, sitting before a 
frame, their long white hands weaving colors. 
Like Matilda and her ladies at Bayeux. That tapes¬ 
try a bit indecent after the manner of the times but 
I daresay William didn’t mind her depicting lusty 
men and horses. By the way, I mustn’t forget to 
give her that Hindoo book. Later on, of course. 
It would shock her now. Dalliances in love, laid out 
like so many exact geometrical figures in coffee 
color. Ananga Ranga. Sounds like an incantation. 
Open Sesame. Secrets for coaxing the frigid. I’ll 
lend it to Elliot’s husband if she ever gets one. 
He’ll need it. She didn’t congratulate me. Look 
of reproach in the corridor instead. She’s never 
forgiven me for the transfer. 

Amy closed her book and shivered. “I’ll put on 
my coat, I think,” she said. “It’s unusually cold for 
Easter.” 

He jumped to lift the coat from the back of 
her chair. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, 
the back of her hat touching his face. Perfumed 
warmth rose from her neck. He breathed it in be¬ 
fore turning her about. “You’re cold because you’re 
nervous today,” he said, whispering the words to 
impress their secret meaning. Her eyes caught at 
his, then slipped away. Her gloved hands fumbled 
at fastenings hidden in fur. 

“We’re getting in, I think,” she said. “I can 
smell the sea.” 


II 


“Reservations for Mr. Geer,” Daniel said. The 
clerk ran over a pile of telegrams and nodded. 

“Daniel Geer. Double room and bath. Number 
711.” He passed a pen to Daniel and swung the 
heavy register around. 

Amy laid her hand on Daniel’s arm. “One room, 
Daniel?” To the clerk she said, “Just a moment, 
please. There’s a mistake.” 

Daniel stood, pen poised, puzzled eyes on Amy. 
“What’s the matter? Did you want two rooms?” 
The clerk waited, bored, his eyes on the telegram. 

“Of course,” Amy said. “Two rooms, please, 
bath connecting.” 

“Sorry, madam. We’re full up. Easter week.” 

Amy smiled into his sallow eyes. “Is Mr. Shaw 
in his office?” 

“Yes, madam.” 

She turned to Daniel. “I know the proprietor. 
I’ve stayed here with my family. Go to the tea 
room and order something while I see about the 
rooms. Tea and cinnamon toast, Daniel.” She 
started away. 

He stood in stiff resentment, watching her cross 
the lobby. Then he kicked the bag at his feet and 
muttered, “Look after our things, will you?” 

121 


122 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Certainly, sir,” said the clerk. 

Daniel strode off, frowning, his heels ringing on 
the marble floor. I should have made the arrange¬ 
ments. I’m the man of this party and ought to 
have gone with her. That clerk must think I’m a 
weak sister of the Sydney breed. Why in hell does 
she want two rooms ? That’s carrying her modesty 
too far. Anyone would think we weren’t married. 

I must tell her what rooms probably cost here. 
Lucky I have only a week’s leave or I’d be ruined. 
So I’m sent to order tea while she attends to the 
business. I’ll have a little talk with that young 
woman when she comes back. She’ll have to guess 
again. 

He chose a table, ordered and lighted a cigarette. 
With angry eyes he watched smart women coming 
in, men trailing at their heels. Like dogs on a leash, 
all of them. Put them on chairs and toss them a 
biscuit to keep them quiet. They make me sick. I 
notice when it’s time to pay the check they suddenly 
become important and are allowed to address the 
waiter. 

Amy came through the door, slimly conspicuous 
by her swaying walk, at her side a gray-haired man, 
tall and immaculate. She found Daniel with her 
eyes and came to him, smiling. “This is he,” she 
said. “Daniel, Mr. Shaw.” 

Daniel held out his hand and Mr. Shaw shook it 
at length. “I wanted to see the fortunate man,” he 
said. “No, thanks, I won’t sit down now.” He 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


123 


pulled out a chair for Amy. “I wish you both a 
charming week,” he said. “And if you want any¬ 
thing special, let the chef know. He’s good. I 
found him in Paris last year. I suppose you’ll be 
going over soon?” 

Amy sat down. “I don’t know how soon. Next 
summer, perhaps. We haven’t any plans.” She drew 
out her cigarette case and watched Mr. Shaw making 
off between the tables. “Lucky I knew him,” she 
said. “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable here. 
Have you ordered?” 

“Yes,” said Daniel. He struck a match and held 
it across the table. It quivered in his hand from 
the angry beat of blood in his pulses. He blew 
it out and laid it on the ash-tray. Setting 
his lips against each other, he leaned forward. 
“Amy,” he began and cleared his throat. “Amy, 
I-” 

“Ah, our tea,” she said. “Good.” She began 
to draw off her gloves as the waiter placed the tray 
before her. “You’ll soon count the tea hour among 
your pleasures,” she said. “See, I’ll perform all 
the rites. You have only to stir it.” She smiled 
and occupied herself with their cups. 

He slumped back into his chair, gazing at her 
hands. On the fourth finger of the hand that held 
her cigarette gleamed his gift, a flawed old cabuchon 
emerald that she had found in a dirty little shop 
on Lexington Avenue. Beneath the stone and 
almost hidden was the important hymeneal hoop. 



124 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He stared at the narrow band of platinum that had 
bound them since morning. 

“Pass the toast, please/' she said. “I’m hungry. 
Here’s your tea.” 

He took his cup and held out the plate of brown 
toast, still watching the movements of her long 
fingers. What beautiful hands! She would have 
been sent to the guillotine for them in 1789. I never 
dreamed mere fingers could be so flavored with 
beauty. Mother’s crooked and warped. Ruth’s 
red. Elliot’s thin and blunt. Mine even more spatu- 
late, practical examples of the only tools man has 
been sure of inheriting, each generation passing on 
the cunning caught by the last until machinery 
stopped the process of evolution. 

He drank his tea, relaxed by its heat, proud eyes 
noting her gestures, significant in their unfamiliar¬ 
ity, important to his exultation. She looks composed 
for the first time today. Not the moment to re¬ 
proach her. Let it go. Time now for joy in my 
bride. Tonight but a few hours away. Dreams will 
be turned into flesh. 

Amy crushed her cigarette on her plate and 
reached for her gloves. “Let’s go rolling,” she said. 
“And be sure, Daniel, you choose a nice chair.” 


Ill 


The board walk creaked and vibrated under the 
moving weights that burdened its wide surfaces. 
Amy thrust her chin and mouth into her furs and 
sat huddled against Daniel’s overcoat as the black 
boy swung their chair into line. Without speaking 
they looked out over sands bared by the tide and 
toward an horizon that was indiscernible in the dusk 
and rising fog. Wisps of thick salt vapor blew 
across their faces and clung to their skins. Daniel 
blinked into the wind and shivered. Amy turned 
to him. 

“One should be a real lover of the sea to approach 
it in its winter moods,” she said. “Perhaps you 
would have preferred Dr. Edwards’ lodge after 
all.” 

Daniel shook his head. “It would have been 
stupid for you. I’ve never hunted anything but Jer¬ 
sey mosquitoes. You’ve heard of them? At home 
we always began talking of mosquitoes in spring, 
remembering and dreading the long stifling nights 
when our little house sang with them and every¬ 
one lay awake for hours groaning and slapping.” 
He looked at her face, softened by the gray light. 
“Your eyes have lost their green color today. 


125 


126 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


They’re as gray as the fog,” he said. “Tell me 
that you are happy—a little.” 

“I’m always quieted by the sea,” she answered. 
“Perhaps it’s the heaviness of the air. And I like to 
watch moving water.” 

His eyes, disappointed, left her face. “I like it, 
too,” he said. “I think of the millions of years that 
the ocean was our mother and how jealously she 
guarded us until we grew up and crawled away. 
Even in this wind it warms me to remember that old 
bond.” 

“I never thought of that,” said Amy. She turned 
her head and regarded him with interest. “Tell me 
more about it.” 

He caught at her hand. “I want to talk 
about you and me. Our marriage. Let’s go 
back to the hotel, Amy. I want to hold you and 
kiss you. I’ve never kissed you yet—not a real 
kiss. You don’t know how much I love you.” 

“Daniel! The boy can hear.” She drew away 
and stared into the mist. Then, breathing sharply, 
she closed her eyes. 

“What’s the matter? Does something hurt you?” 
He bent forward and captured her hand again. 
“Tell me your thoughts, Amy.” 

“I’m tired, I suppose. Nothing else. Nerves, per¬ 
haps. But everything’s all right now.” 

He felt her weight return against his shoulder and 
in his delight he put his arm about her and pressed 
her in a trembling embrace. She twisted about and 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


127 

called to the boy to stop. “I’m frozen. I’d like to 
walk, if you don’t mind.” 

Moving in the shelter of the buildings, he took 
her arm. I wonder why she seems afraid of me. 
Always a withdrawal. I’ve heard of women like 
that. Cold and aloof until they get used to a man. 
I mustn’t frighten her. Give her time. She’s no 
common wench to be chucked under the chin and 
forced between dinner and the closing hour. Like 
the girl that night in the Oxford bar. “Garn, you 
must be off your chump. Nah-ow! Not if I was to 
’ave my ’ead cut off!” But she did all the same. 
Hope Amy never asks me about those others. I’d 
better lie if she does. Women think each adventure 
is momentous. 

Amy stopped before a jeweler’s window and ap¬ 
praised the rows of hard bright stones and gentle 
pearls that rested in cases of white velvet. “See, 
Daniel, that little bracelet there! Isn’t it charming ?” 

He stood, shoulder against her brown fur, and 
hand on her arm. “Yes. Very pretty.” 

She looked at him with eagerness. “I should like 
that, I think. Let’s go in and look at it.” 

He studied the circle of smallish pearls, closed 
and ornamented by a clasp of chip emeralds. Costs 
at least two or three hundred. I can’t afford that 
on top of everything else. I’ll be bankrupt in no 
time. “I don’t think we’d better, dear.” 

“Why, Daniel, don’t you like it? Really, it’s 
very good taste. And such a simple little thing.” 


128 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“I suppose it is. But this shop looks expensive. ,, 

“Oh, no, it isn’t! Anyway, we can ask the price.” 
She pulled at his arm but he resisted, closing obstin¬ 
ate lips. 

“It can’t be done. I’m not made of money, Amy.” 
His voice was a defense of property, acerb and in¬ 
dignant. 

She stepped back and looked at him blankly. He 
saw her flexible mouth curling into lines of disgust. 
Swinging in an abrupt turn she walked away, leav¬ 
ing him to gape after her, unable in his astonishment 
to follow her with words of explanation and en¬ 
treaty. 

Presently he turned again to the window, looking 
at the bracelet in the velvet bed. Why did I say 
“made of money?” I spoke as I do to father’s im¬ 
portunities. Better not follow her right away. 
Meet her at the hotel in a few minutes. I should 
have given a more romantic refusal. Father’s fault. 
Always hectoring me for money till I snarled at the 
word. Everybody after my money. Father, mother, 
Ruth, Andrew, the boys at the office. Always a fight 
to get it back. Hope Amy’s not crying. Still tears 
may teach her to check extravagant tastes. She 
never gave a thought to the price of two rooms and 
bath. I hope Rufus hasn’t given her grandiose ideas 
of what I’m getting. 

He walked toward the hotel, taking short, deliber¬ 
ate steps. I can’t go on spending money like water. 
My bank account won’t stand it. First her rings 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


129 


and the check, then my clothes and this trip. I may 
not be blue-blooded but the purse strings are in my 
hands. She’ll have to keep a ledger of expenses for 
the apartment. Good training for her. I won’t 
speak of it till we get back to New York. Now to 
go in and make peace. Then we’ll change for din¬ 
ner. She’ll be in her room by now. Sulky, per¬ 
haps, but remembering that after all she is married 
to me. It will be charming to have her dress only 
one room away. Tomorrow I shall dare to go in 
whenever I like. I shall be her husband and admit¬ 
ted to all intimacies. The ceremony of the bath, the 
fall of red hair about her soft shoulders. . . . Won¬ 
der who conceived the fallacious idea about anticipa¬ 
tion. Someone with a taste for the whips of un¬ 
certainty. Anticipation disorders all the processes. 
The clear concentration that should be given to work 
is dissipated in hot flashes, chills and fevers, noc¬ 
turnal tossings. In fact, all the symptoms of malaria 
are present. 

Turning off the board walk he struck across a 
small dull square and stared up at the unevenly 
placed patches of light that were the windows of the 
hotel. Behind the broad windows men and women 
seek nomadic shelter. Behind the narrow windows 
are the comfortable bathrooms of civilization. The 
world scrubs very clean these days—this new world, 
at least, whose art lies in its superb plumbing. Be¬ 
hind which window is she waiting for me ? What is 
her mood? I’ll take her in my arms, asking forgive- 


130 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

ness, an offending and contrite bridegroom. We 
will dine in a corner after cocktails from my flask. 
And then we’ll lock a legal door against the world. 

He ran up the steps and hurried to the desk. The 
clerk, smiling now, passed out a key. “You have 
335 and 337, Mr. Geer.” 

“Thank you. Is—is my wife—has Mrs. Geer 
come in?” 

“Yes. About ten minutes ago, I think, sir.” 

Daniel squeezed the key into his palm. It im¬ 
pressed the shape of its narrow end into the flesh 
below his thumb. He went into the elevator, cherish¬ 
ing this physical pain as if it were an entry fee into 
Amy’s gracious relenting. The corridor of his floor 
showed two rows of dark wood doors and, walking 
along on a pattern of morning glories and roses, he 
peered at the numbers. This one 313. And 330 
opposite. Mine must be around the comer. 

He opened his fingers and stared at his key. With 
such pieces of metal history has been made, giving 
paradise to lovers, shutting in the socially unfit, re¬ 
assuring capital, guarding royal intrigues in archives, 
bestowing civic honors, comforting misers, sym¬ 
bolizing learning, inspiring God knows how many 
songs about hearts under a lock. 

Turning the corner, he faced his room. He un¬ 
locked the door and went in. The lights were on, 
his bags lay between the windows and the door was 
open. He crossed the room and stood staring 
through the bright whiteness of tiles. The opposite 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


131 

door was closed. He turned away and took off his 
hat and overcoat, dropping them on the divan. Be¬ 
fore the mirror of the dressing table he smoothed 
down his hair and pushed up the knot of his green 
silk tie. Holding his breath, he crossed the bath¬ 
room and knocked. 

“Amy, are you there ?” Her pause held him like 
a hand. He waited for words that should come 
from beyond the wood. 

“I’m dressing. I’ll be ready in a little while,” she 
said. 

“Oh.” He spoke the word as if it were giving her 
some important information about himself. “Oh,” 
he repeated. “Oh, all right.” He gazed down at 
the knob, studying its baldness. 

“Daniel.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Telephone down and get seats for that new 
Belasco play.” 

“Play?” he said. “When? Tonight?” 

“Yes. It might be amusing.” 

He stroked the cold shiny knob with his fore¬ 
finger, noting the steamy line that made a wake just 
beyond his nail. “All right,” he said again and, turn¬ 
ing, went to the telephone by his bed. 


IV 


They walked back to the hotel that night through 
a thick mist, broken about them by colorless figures, 
murmuring shades of the chattering, bright crowd 
of the theatre. Daniel, erect and grave, followed 
Amy to the desk, eyes fixed on the knot of red hair 
pressed against her neck by the fur collar of her 
cape. He watched her nod to the clerk and saw the 
long white fingers close on her key. He took his 
own and they went to the elevator to pass upward 
in silence from the buzzing confusion of the lobby. 

“I’m hungry,” Amy said, unlocking her door. 
‘‘Order some sandwiches, Daniel. In your room. 
I’ll come in as soon as I get out of this dress. Some 
of the beads are coming loose.” 

He let himself into his room, smiling. He sent 
for a waiter, hung up his coat and began to whistle 
through his teeth. He took a dressing gown and 
pyjamas from his bag and held them up under the 
light. My first silk garments. Women have a pen¬ 
chant for silk. Extravagant for anything except a 
honeymoon. Mother would think I’d gone crazy. 
She never heard of masculine luxuries. Silk to her 
is for a woman’s Sunday dress. She turned hers 
over every two years. Might as well take off my 


132 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


133 


coat and put on this kimono thing. Hope it pleases 
her. Apparently she’s passed over this afternoon. 
Women always forgive with both hands. Onel 

reason men have treated them so badly. A 

Tieing the narrow belt around his waist, he went 
to the mirror. I’d better take a drink. I look pale 
and nervous—altogether in the tradition. This 
color is becoming. Funny what a difference it makes 
who wields the sartorial scissors. Everything in the 
cut. Sartor Resartus. The Sage of Chelsea could 
write about it but he never managed to look smart. 
My new suit pleased her eyes, though accustomed to 
Sydney’s magnificences. But I’ll wear out the old 
things at the office. There’s the waiter. 

He ordered sandwiches and ginger ale, then 
brought out a bottle of whiskey from his large bag. 
As he was drawing the cork, Amy knocked and 
opened the door. 

“May I?” 

She came through the bathroom, brilliant in a 
Chinese suit of grass green, like a rather tall, in¬ 
capacious bird from a tropical forest. She nodded 
at the bottle in Daniel’s hands. “I was hoping you 
hadn’t forgotten that,” she said. “We’ll need some 
ice, I think. Did you order ice, Daniel?” She 
walked about his room with nervous steps, twisting 
her scarab ring about her finger, an unlighted ciga¬ 
rette between her lips. “I’m looking for—oh, here 
they are.” She caught up a box of matches from 
his dressing table and lit her cigarette. Inhaling 


134 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


with relief, she blew out the match and looked over 
at Daniel. “What are you staring at?” she asked. 

Daniel blinked at her. “It’s the—it’s those,” he 
said. “I never saw a woman in trousers before. I 
suppose you’ll think me provincial. And I daresay 
I am. I realize it when I am with you. You’re so 
different from anyone I’ve ever known.” He set 
the bottle down on the table and went to her. “How 
did you ever happen to care for me, Amy? Tell 
me!” He put his arms around her shoulders. 
“You never say anything about it. Don’t you know 
it’s what I most want to hear ? In the worst of my 
humiliation when you said you wouldn’t marry me, 
I understood it. I knew a person like you couldn’t 
care for me. But when you changed your mind 
afterward I kept asking myself. Why? What does 
she see in me?” He waited, gazing at her cheek 
close to his eyes. “Why do you love me, Amy?” 

She released her shoulders and lifted her cigarette. 
“Really, Daniel, there are lots of women who would 
be happy to change places with me,” she said. “I 
didn’t know a man could be so modest.” She walked 
to an arm chair and sank into it. “Give me a drink, 
please. I’m exhausted.” 

He brought a glass from the bathroom. “Don’t 
you want to wait for the ginger ale?” 

She shook her head and drank down the whiskey, 
sighing as she gave him the glass. “Thank you.” 
She rested her cheek on her hand and closed her 
eyes. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


135 


He stood before her, holding the glass and look¬ 
ing down at her loosened red hair and the white 
stretch of neck rising from emerald silk. She lay 
in the chair as still as if she were asleep, but the 
smoke that floated up from her left hand gave a 
sense of life and motion. His eyes went to the hand 
with the cigarette, seeing it was bare now of his 
rings. 

When the waiter knocked, Daniel went to the door 
and took the tray from him. He brought it to the 
table and went back to sign the check. As he closed 
the door Amy opened her eyes and smiled. She 
stretched her arms and came to the table 

“Waiters aren’t people, Daniel. Don’t be so old- 
fashioned. You act just like mamma.” 

He blushed and jerked the tin cap from the ginger 
ale bottle. “I didn’t want that fellow to see—after 
all, they’re human beings—” 

She crossed her long green legs and took up a 
sandwich. “I’m as covered as he is,” she said. 
“That mine are more attractive is only a chance of 
nature.” 

“We won’t go into that now,” said Daniel. He 
watched her pointed white teeth bite through the 
white bread. “It’s a large discussion to treat 
casually. And you’re too tired tonight to do your 
side justice.” 

Her eyes drooped. “Yes. It’s been a difficult day. 
And I was bored at the theatre. I kept thinking of 
other things-” 



136 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

“Of what I said this afternoon? Oh, Amy, please 
forgive me.” He leaned over the table and caught 
at her hand. “If you knew the circumstances of 
my younger years—the atmosphere I lived in at 
home-” 

“I can guess,” she said. “And there are things 
for both of us to forgive, I-” 

There was a knock at the door. Daniel jumped 
and it was Amy who called, “Come in,” adding, 
“I’ll put my legs under the table if you like, Daniel.” 

A page boy came in, holding out a tray. On it 
lay a yellow envelope. 

“For me?” said Daniel, putting out his hand. 

“No, sir. For the lady.” 

“Oh,” said Daniel. “For you, Amy.” He took 
it from the tray and gave it to her. “Mrs. Da!niel 
Geer,” he said with excitement. The boy turned 
and walked away. “Mrs. Daniel Geer,” he repeated. 
“It sounds unreal, doesn’t it? How do you feel 
when you see that? Do you get a sense of identity 
with me or—” He stopped and waited for her to 
read the message. 

Her eyes rested briefly on the yellow paper. She 
crumpled it into her palm and laid it on the tray. 
“What did you say, Daniel?” 

He watched her face, noting a drawn look about 
the lips. The mauve circles topping her cheekbones 
had changed to gray. Her eyes were again green 
and secret, looking beyond him. “You had no bad 
news, I hope?” he said. 




THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


137 

She moved her eyes into a sharp focus upon his 
face. “Bad news?” 

He watched her eyebrows move up defensively. 
“I mean your telegram,” he said. 

“Oh, no.” She took up her sandwich. “I think 
I’d like another drink, please. With ginger ale this 
time.” 

He got up at once and fetched the whiskey bottle. 
She acts as if it were an intrusion for me to ask. 
Bad manners again, I suppose. Damn it, I can’t get 
through an hour without making myself ridiculous. 
Mother and father always opened each other’s tele¬ 
grams and letters—when they had any. Evidently 
isn’t done in her set. Probably from her mother 
who had just heard the news. Why couldn’t she 
say so? Perhaps the old lady is angry and Amy 
doesn’t want to upset me. Oh, well, she’ll come 
around in time with the prescriptive blessing. 

After giving Amy her highball, he made one for 
himself and was making another when the waiter 
came. He signed the check and lifted their glasses 
from the tray. The bottom of Amy’s glass grazed 
the ball of paper. Daniel’s eyes followed the yellow 
patch as the tray rose to the waiter’s shoulder. He 
watched it across the room and through the door. 

Amy set down her empty glass and got up. Her 
face was white and her lips lost their red freshness. 
“I’m very tired,” she said. “I think I’ll go to bed 
now.” She walked into the bathroom and closed the 
door. 


138 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

He sat down and lighted a cigarette. I wonder if 
she’ll mind my hearing the sound of water in there. 
Brushing teeth and washing off soap are unromantic 
noises. Should I have gone downstairs? There 
might be other bashful bridegrooms to keep me com¬ 
pany, sitting in an empty lobby for the sake of 
romance. I’d better unpack and undress. Activity 
will be good for my nerves. 

Taking a suit from his bag, he hung it in the 
closet by his brown one and found a hanger for his 
evening coat. He laid out his toilet articles on the 
dresser and filled the dresser drawers with shirts, 
socks, neckties and underwear. Then he began to 
undress. Water stopped in there. That’s her door 
closing. My ablutional turn. Funny how the vibra¬ 
tion of a brain cell can affect the heart. Love, fear, 
anger, desire and the pump begins to rock at full 
speed. Choking me. What if I don’t please her? 
I must attack, of course. Boldness wins. They de¬ 
spise you otherwise. The world loves a lover but 
laughs at a bridegroom. And a husband is a per¬ 
petual joke. Synonym for cuckold in France. II 
est cocu. Wouldn’t marry a Latin for the best prize 
in the lottery. Sure to deceive you behind any door 
at the first invitation. Better shave. Her skin is as 
thin as a veil. 

After he had shaved and put on his pyjamas and 
new leather slippers, he brushed his hair before the 
mirror, smoothing it down with many meticulous 
motions. Then he lit a cigarette. My God, I’m 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


139 


trembling like a neophtye. Where is the swooning 
delight of today? Ousted by my terror. She may 
be asleep. Should I wake her? Perhaps there’s 
some unwritten law of which I am ignorant. Still 
manners can’t be so different in cases like this. The 
same motions must be current in all circles. Glad 
we’re not back in the 16th century. Wouldn’t like 
her mother bursting in with a cup of bouillon in her 
hand and admonitions to me on her lips. 

He switched off the light and went into the bath¬ 
room to stand before her door. He lifted his hand 
and rapped three times. There was no answer. He 
turned the knob and pushed open the door. The 
room was dark and the light from the bathroom 
made a path to the bed. Leaving the door ajar, he 
followed the narrow line of light. 

Amy lay on her side. In the dimness he saw her 
face, the eyes open upon his approach. 

“Are you asleep?” His voice was tight in his 
throat, deranged from the pounding of his blood. 
He coughed and stopped at the side of the bed, stand¬ 
ing awkwardly, hands stiff at his sides. 

“No, Daniel.” 

He sat down, trembling, and set his teeth together. 
His hand descended, and startled, he drew it back 
from the coverlet to his knee. She’s as rigid as a 
mummy in its wrappings. Suffering even as I am. 
Why should we feel shame? If she’d only hold out 
her hand as she did that day in her apartment when 
I was leaving! But she doesn’t move. No gesture 


140 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


of love. The desire by which I have lived for weeks 
has no response in her. 

Her hand was near his on the silk quilt. He took 
it, murmuring, “Amy.” It was without life or 
heat. He stared down at the lines of her arm and 
breast lighted from the open door. Like moulded 
snow. My white virgin. My love will melt this 
mood. The craters of her eyes look burned out. 
She seems in pain. Was there anything in that 
damned telegram? Why didn’t she show it to me? 
So natural to say, “Look, congratulations from So- 
and-So.” Or, “See, mother is really angry.” Per¬ 
haps she’s chilled by the fear all women feel. Or 
she may want from me only companionship in 
marriage, affectionate love. To some women a 
closer relation is unpleasant. She may be fearing in 
me a modern Agathocles Triorchis or wishing that 
I had been served like Abelard. 

As he sat staring into the bleak face, he noted 
the false black shadows and how heavily the head 
rested on the pillow of red hair. Tears smarted in 
his eyes and he lifted his hand from hers. “You’re 
tired. I’ll go to bed in there,” he said. 

Her shadowed eyes did not move. “Goodnight,” 
she whispered. 

“Goodnight, Amy.” He went toward the door, his 
ears keen for a rustle that would tell of a hand 
stretched out in recall. He stopped. Silence. 
“Goodnight,” he said again. 

He closed the door and went into his room. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 141 

Standing under a cluster of lights, he looked down 
at his shining breast. My first silk pyjamas—for 
my bridal night. He gave a short laugh, a strident, 
harsh explosion that issued involuntarily to surprise 
him. Then he snapped off the lights. 


V 


He left the hotel at nine o’clock the next morning. 
Twenty minutes later he returned. At the desk he 
was given three telegrams. Two were for Amy. 
He put them in his pocket and went to the elevator, 
reading Trainer’s twelve word report. Upstairs he 
opened his door eagerly, listening for a running tub. 
The door to the bathroom was closed as he had 
left it. He threw down his hat and put his ear 
to the wood. Then he took off his overcoat, 
brushed his hair and went into the bathroom. One 
hand in his pocket, he knocked at her door—two 
dull taps. Her voice, muffled and lethargic, an¬ 
swered him. 

“May I come in?” 

“Yes. But I’m not up yet.” 

He went in to find her lying in a ball, luxuriously, 
with sunlight falling on her hair, a long red banner 
across the pillow. She looked up at him, moving 
thin white eyelids. “Dressed so early?” 

“I’ve .been out for a walk,” he said and came to 
the side of the bed. He drew his closed hand from 
his pocket. “I’ve brought you something, Amy. 
Sit up.” 

He placed the pillows behind her and gave her his 


142 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


143 


hand to open. She pulled herself up slowly, ex¬ 
amining his face with doubtful green eyes before 
she took the package from his fingers. He watched 
her unfold the paper with somnolent hands and lift 
the cover of the box. In a circle cut into white 
velvet lay a bracelet of smallish pearls closed by a 
clasp of chip emeralds. 

“Oh,” she said, astonished, still torpid from sleep. 
“Oh, it’s the one that—” 

“Yes,” said Daniel, sitting down on the bed. 

She picked it up by the clasp and let it swing 
between their faces. “Sweet, isn’t it?” 

“Here, let me put it on,” he said. His voice was 
hoarse and flaccid. She held out her arm and looked 
on with an indolent, sluggish smile while he fumbled 
the clasp with shaking fingers. “It’s sweet,” she 
repeated. 

Her face against the morning light was un¬ 
troubled and smooth. Faint opalescent shadings 
tinted the skin about the eyes—pastel shadows, thin 
unsubstantialities of color that touched the continent 
line of the eyebrows above and curved below to rest 
on the cheekbones. In vivid, harmonious contrast 
burned her mouth, narrow and blood-red, curling 
in and up at the corners. 

“There,” he whispered. He leaned compact 
shoulders over her slenderness. She smiled and 
patted his hand. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Now take it off. I’ll 
put it on again after my bath.” She sat up and 


144 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


crossed her arms. “Please close the windows. Pm 
cold. Anything in the papers today?” 

He shook his head. “Oh. Two telegrams for 
you. I forgot.” 

“Telegrams?” Her face stiffened and her eyes 
flew awake. She tore open the envelopes. Daniel 
went to close the windows and when he turned 
around she was smiling. “Mamma sends her love 
and Elizabeth Corning tells me our cat has run 
away.” She put the telegrams on the night table. 
“Well, Salome always was a restless spirit. She 
looked out of the window all day. Order breakfast, 
please, Daniel, while I take my bath.” 

He stirred but did not get up. His eyes ran over 
her body outlined under the bright silk quilt. “You 
seem more interested in the cat’s defection than in 
your mother’s message,” he said. 

She twisted her hair into a rope and wound it 
about her head. While she was fastening it into 
place with hairpins from the night table, his eyes 
clung to the smooth hollows of her armpits with 
their blue tracery of young veins. “It’s because I 
know mamma,” she said. “That telegram is only 
a truce. She’s reserving decision. Oh, well—” 
She looked at him and seeing that he bent nearer 
with closing eyes, she pushed him away. “No. I 
haven’t had my bath.” 

He received her implication with a quiver in all 
his muscles and a quick flush. “Bath? May I draw 
the water for you?” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


145 


“If you like. And as hot as possible.” 

He jumped up and hurried to the bathroom, 
passing chairs strewn with flesh-colored chiffon gar¬ 
ments and transparent stockings. The water sent 
steam up to his face when he turned the tap and he 
let a trickle of cold water flow beside the hot, 
regulating the mixture with his hand until he judged 
the temperature pleasing to her. From the shelf 
he took a jar of bath salts and filled his wet palm 
with perfumed grains, letting them drop to the 
bottom of the tub like small pebbles. He found her 
soap in a silver box and placed it in the rack. I’ve 
heard that voluptuaries are against soap. They 
say it destroys the natural scent. So does perfume 
from the Rue de la Paix. Makes women smell like 
a row of bottles. What was it that Frenchman said 
about red-haired women? Either more pervading 
or less. Amy meant I could kiss her after her bath. 
This water a covenant between us. Presently it 
will caress her as she lies, white and wet, long 
hands occupied with their miscellaneous minutiae 
and I, closed out and trembling, on the other side of 
the door. 

He kicked aside the bath mat he had used an hour 
before and spread a towel as large as a rug for her 
feet. “All ready, dear. I’ll order breakfast while 
you—” 

“Thanks.” She smiled at him as he stood in the 
door and threw off the quilt with a sudden movement 
of her arm. As he did not turn to go, she hesitated 


146 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

and drew up the sheet to her neck. “Coffee and 
toast will be all I want, Daniel.” 

“Well—that won’t take long.” He went into his 
room and telephoned the order. The morning news¬ 
papers were lying on the table and he unfolded them, 
passing over the headlines with a professional 
glance, then spreading open the pages. Presently he 
brushed them aside and with ears alert for sounds 
from the bathroom, he walked to the window and 
stood observing the yellow beach, lying supine in 
the sunshine. Courageous spring bathers. Little 
male and female toys, jumping to strings that were 
pulled a million ages past, ignorant of their source 
and destiny—collected, changing cells actuated by 
a ribbon of food and filth that unwinds through their 
middles from birth to death, regenerating and poi¬ 
soning. Shivering there, they calculate the height 
of breakers while I stand here rocked by subjective 
waves of impacted passion, swamped by inhibitions. 

He began to pace across the room—to the win¬ 
dows, to the door and back into the sunlight. He 
held his pale lips apart, breathing through them, 
and forced his forehead into a tight fluting. As 
he walked he clenched his hands and moved his 
arms up and down from the elbow joints. Then 
with the final abrupt gesture of a man who has won 
an argument and now turns to other matters, he 
unbuttoned his coat and vest, pulled them off and 
flung them across the foot of the bed. He sat 
down, frowning at his boots as he unlaced them. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


147 


As he was kicking them off, the waiter knocked and 
Daniel ran to the divan for the brown robe. He 
covered his underwear and opened the door. 

“Put it over there—your tray. No, don’t serve. 
Give me the check.” He signed it, a wavering line 
that ran off the card, and stood rigidly until the man 
had left the room. When the door closed he sprang 
at it and snapped the key into the lock. From that 
spasmodic act, he turned and looked fixedly at the 
bathroom door, breathing in jerks through nostrils 
that twitched and spread. Then, chin thrust out, he 
began his approach, inclining forward, scarcely 
touching his heels to the carpet. He stopped at the 
door, an impendent hand grasping the knob. God, 
I’m like a bull ape. Ought to drum shaggy chest 
to announce attack. Intelligence submerged. Out 
of control. Go in. No. Ask her first. Why 
ask? Such shrinking marks a weakling. Fin de 
siecle type. Answer nature’s will. Go on and 
answer. It’s expected—orthodox—paynim. Why 
wait for pretty permission? Hurry. Blood beating 
me deaf and blind. 

He strengthened his stance and threw back his 
head. His fingers tightened on the knob like hooks. 
He jerked the door open and went in. Amy was 
standing on the towel he had laid before the tub. 
Her back, turned toward the door, shone with the 
glaze of water, dripping and running down the pink 
planes of her body. In the lucernal glare intensified 
by mirrors, her flesh had a transparent quality, as if 


148 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


it had been laid on with a small fine brush in thin 
luminous paint of pink and mauve. 

She had not moved since he had burst into the 
room, but stood sending a defensive and angry look 
over her shoulder. Now she turned with a cry 
and caught up a towel. Before she could finish the 
gesture of enwrapping, he sprang upon her to 
snatch the towel from her hands. As it fell to the 
floor, he seized her by the wrist and swung her 
about to face him, avoiding her outraged eyes. The 
force of his abrupt movement shook loose two long 
bronze hairpins. They tinkled on the tiling and a 
soft red curtain descended and covered her. 

“Ah!” He spoke accusingly as if the dropping 
of her hair were the result of a plan to defeat him. 
She bent forward in an effort at further conceal¬ 
ment, letting him twist her wrists to a raw red. At 
this refusal, he took a half step toward her, placed 
his hands under her arms and lifted her up against 
him. As he carried her to the door, she pushed at 
him and beat his face with her hands, her body 
strained back in a stiff arc of resistance. 

He began to laugh in his throat as he walked, 
his teeth set together and his face pressed into the 
cool slippery wetness of her neck. The door to her 
room was open and he went through it and into the 
sunlight. A little stream of water followed at his 
heels, trickling a crooked pattern on the carpet as he 
stumbled his way forward. 

Beside her bed he released her and she dropped 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


149 


into the tumbled sheets, pulling at them and rolling 
on her side. He looked down into her eyes, bright 
with rebellion, staring at him from wide lids. She 
was gasping in dry sobs. 

“Don’t—be—angry,” he said eagerly, “It’s—all 
right. We—we’re married.” 

Amy thrust wet arms against his neck in a final 
protesting effort at release. His embrace was in¬ 
vincible. She relaxed. Her lips moved. A sound 
came from her pulsing throat—a spoken moan. 

“What did you say?” He gave a little tug of 
impatience at the coil of hair in his hand. “Amy, 
did you want to tell me something?” 

She shook her head and her eyes closed in slow 
resignation. His mouth descended. She began to 
sob. Her tears flowed in a passionate stream from 
the outer corners of her eyes and dropped back into 
the ruddy aromatic masses of her hair. 


VI 


A fluent rain blowing on Daniel’s face awoke 
him. Cursing, he jumped up and closed the window, 
standing to blink down with animosity at his wet 
pillow. On the way to the bathroom he looked at 
the clock. Five minutes to eight. Avoiding boards 
that habitually creaked, he shut himself in to shave 
and yawned into a towel as he dried his face and 
hair. After a tepid bath he went to the bedroom 
door and looked in at Amy, asleep and stretched 
diagonally across the bed. Too bad she’s in that 
position. I couldn’t lie down there without waking 
her. Better not. She needs to rest after last night’s 
chatter. Glad everything went off well. My 
mother-in-law is a stiff old party. Full-blown 
aristocrat with a duchess’s disdainful nose. Kept 
an eye on her new son. A cold eye all-observant 
easily malignant, I should think. Wonder what 
she and Amy were whispering about all that time. 
Something about me. They looked across as if to 
fix me in my chair. But I was far from wanting 
to mix in their chatter. Enough on my hands to 
capture the dry obscurities of the Corning. That 
dinner was expensive. I’ll choose the restaurant 
next time, since I pay the check. Must talk to Amy 
this morning about keeping a ledger. 


150 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


151 

He began to walk about the room, stepping 
softly, then stopping in the gray light before her 
evening cape, hung over a chair, a rippling surface 
of gold and black brocade beside an open trunk. 
With his foot he touched a gold shoe lying on 
the Mexican rug, comparing its size with his bare 
foot, withdrawn from his slipper. Smiling, he 
ventured another cautious step but this time a 
crepitant sound from the flooring cracked a betrayal 
and he heard Amy stir in bed. 

“Daniel! What are you doing? It isn’t much 
after dawn, is it?” 

“Nearly nine o’clock and another rainstorm,” he 
answered and went to stand in the doorway. “What 
about coffee? This isn’t Mrs. Lewis’s day, you 
know. Shall I make it now?” He came in and 
leaned against the wall, thin in his brown dressing 
gown, hair brushed down, wet and sleek above his 
high forehead. 

“If we’re to have any,” said Amy through a 
yawn. “I don’t know how.” She lifted pink arms 
above her head and stretched them in slow languor. 
Watching her with warm eyes, he went toward the 
bed. 

“Rain’s coming in. Want the window down?” 
She nodded and yawned again, a frank opening of 
small red jaws, delicately feminine and set with 
white feline teeth. He shut the window and she, 
seeing his lighted face turned toward her, pulled up 
the sheet of coarse cotton, brought from the Newark 


152 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


apartment. Closing her eyes, she pressed her head 
into the pillow, moving it until by this impersonal 
caress she had made a hollow place for her cheek. 
He frowned but spoke with a careless air, skimming 
over the surface of his thoughts. “I suppose by 
shutting your eyes like that you make me a sign— 
like a Turkish woman placing the forbidding slippers 
outside her door.” She sighed in a sound of assent 
and he waited, watching for her eyelids to open with 
a question. But they remained closed, holding down 
their fringe of dark, curling lashes against her white, 
unflushed skin. He walked over his defeat and sat 
down on the bed. His hand went out to her shoulder 
and stroked it. “It seems to me I’m always here, 
outside, begging for some sign that you are my wife. 
Don’t you feel married to me, Amy? I was just 
looking at the room in there. You haven’t even 
unpacked your trunk. And why haven’t you sent 
for your other things?” 

She drawled sleepily, “No place to put them.” 

“We’ll find places. After the trunks are emptied 
they can be sent down to the store room.” 

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Don’t 
worry, Daniel. You don’t understand these things. 
I’ll take care of everything. I’m more efficient than 
you think.” Her eyes, glaucous and secret, were 
smiling into his, reading him, guarding against being 
read. “You’ll be surprised to discover what a good 
manager I am,” she added and finished her gaze. 

“What do you mean?” He bent down to her 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


153 


face, holding it to his as she tried to twist away. 
“No—no—let me kiss you. Amy, kiss me. I love 
you. I’m mad for you. You don’t know how I 
love you. Can’t express myself—never could—to 
tell you—” 

She raised her head and sent a little peck at his 
cheek. “There. Now my coffee—please, Daniel. 
I’m so tired.” 

He released her slowly and sat up. Turning, he 
looked through the window at the gray pelt of rain. 
The flush faded from his face and his eyes grew 
dull. “All right,” he said. “I’ll put on the water. 
Aren’t you going to get up?” 

“Not until mamma comes for me,” she said. 
“We’re going out.” 

In the kitchenette he arranged the plates and cups 
on a tray and put rolls in the oven. His forehead in 
a puzzled frown and his mouth tight and concerned, 
he returned to the living room and stood looking at 
a small typewriter on his reading table. “Going on 
with your writing, Amy?” 

She made two affirmative sounds behind closed 
lips. 

“That’s fine. By the way—do you ever sew?” 

Two sounds of negation. 

“No? What do you do all day?” 

“Write—read—talk—go out—come in.” 

“I suppose you have friends here—I mean besides 
Miss Corning and that Mr.—Mr.—” 

“Oh, yes. A few.” 


154 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“You mustn’t get lonesome in the evenings. You 
must have them come here whenever you like.” 

“Well—there isn’t much room.” 

He went to the door again, speaking in an ex¬ 
asperated tone. “That’s the second time you’ve said 
that. What’s the matter with this apartment? It’s 
very nice and the rent is moderate. I’ve planned 
some improvements, of course. Twin beds in there, 
for one thing, since you must sleep alone. We’ll be 
very comfortable.” 

She moved in bed, burrowing again into the 
pillow. “Of course. Is breakfast ready? My 
head aches.” 

“I’m sorry, dear. That dinner was rich last night. 
Perhaps if you had eaten plainer food in a simple 
place—” 

“It’s not that. Mamma and I ran about a great 
deal yesterday.” 

“Exhibitions and concerts, I suppose.” 

“Oh—this and that. Planning a surprise for you 
was one thing.” 

“Really?” He advanced into her room again. 
“Tell me.” 

“Not yet. Daniel, please—my breakfast.” She 
lifted herself on the pillow and reached out to the 
night table for a powder puff and hairpins. “I 
think I’ll have it here if you don’t mind bringing it.” 
She smiled at him, a long covinous smile that locked 
him out of intimacy. Her slender arms were mov¬ 
ing and her hands were filled with the red strands 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


155 


of her hair, a dull potent red in the sad gray light. 

His eyes, lingering on her throat, were again 
lighted by his desire and words he wanted to speak 
caught in his throat as he turned away. 


VII 


Mrs. Fiske was expected at eleven. At ten 
minutes to that hour Daniel nodded ungraciously 
to the elevator .boy and started for the subway 
through wet streets. Seated in a train his cotton 
umbrella between his knees, he unfolded a news¬ 
paper. Such is the habit of ocular occupation that 
I must stimulate my modern nerves with print I’ve 
read before. A man of the last century would find 
stimulation enough in rushing along under the 
towers of Babel at this velocity. 

His eyes, fastened on the type, went slowly out 
of focus and turned inward on the plexus of his 
thought. Wonder what surprise Amy has cooked 
up for her recruit to matrimony. Women love se¬ 
crets. Probably a set of neckties chosen by her 
mother. Soon I shall have passed through all phases 
of marriage. Except the fading of the rhapsody. In 
most matings love is pilloried and the caresses be¬ 
come dry and tacit. I wonder why Amy is still 
frightened. Perhaps because joy in love has been 
so ridden out of women. Their submissions in¬ 
herited and rebellions lost. They’ve been sought 
and conquered, not consulted. La Froideur des 
Femmes. Must read it tonight. Always buying 
books and forgetting them. She had it last night, 
156 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


157 


smiling. Too bad men have no aesthetic appeal. 
But if they were like the Greek idealizations women 
wouldn’t be able to live on the same planet. Only 
their ugliness keeps their egos in check. I’d rather 
have Amy coldly monandrous than like Mrs. Stone. 
Her husband never knew the number of her daily 
deceptions and not a woman in Newark bowed. I 
must coax away Amy’s timidity and lead her from 
reluctant moods. Brakes again. What station? 

He stared out of the window at the platform, 
turning his head as a girl with soft fair curls in 
clusters over her ears came into the car. She sat 
down to face him, settled her short skirt and pulled 
at her hat. With eyes on Daniel, she opened a 
stained, brown book. As he appraised her fresh 
youth and its appeal of inexperience, she moved 
self-consciously. He lifted his paper. Ewig- 
Weibliche. But no. I abstain. My new rectitude is a 
dry garden where a maimed Priapus watches from 
his pedestal with the cold spirit of a spire. Wonder 
what she’s reading. As a matter of interest. An 
entirely asexual thought. But I won’t look over. 
I’d only be affronted iby Anthony Hope or Anthony 
Trollope. She would divide books into two classes 
—interesting and no good. The critical faculty 
waits for the late twenties and usually doesn’t 
develop at all. Next station. Hope I wasn’t needed 
at the office last night. Trainer smiled his sneer at 
my hymeneal absences, but I’ll let the circulation 
figures defend me. 


158 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He folded his paper, eyes away from the girl 
across the car. As the train slowed down he arose 
and stood near the door. There’d be no harm in 
looking. Practising will power. Won’t turn. 
Curious how you can love one woman yet think of 
others you don’t want. A male propensity that 
will perhaps be wiped out as the tendency to ma¬ 
triarchy grows on us. That is, on America. Ages 
away from it in Europe. Here the sexes mingle 
and exchange their characteristics. Historians see 
in that a sign of decay. But I say it’s progress at 
the opposite side of the circle. 

The train ground to a stop and he hurried to the 
stairway. In the street a girl in a blue suit walked 
before him, crossing at the place he always chose, 
making the turns that were his daily direction. 
Again my eyes are drawn in harmless attraction. I 
like the way she walks, shoulders motionless, the 
work done from the hips as it should be. Nice 
foot and ankle. Can’t see her head for the umbrella. 
Damn that puddle. Half way over my shoe. Al¬ 
ways something wrong for me with the weather. 
From May to September only may I praise the 
seasons. 

The girl closed her umbrella before the revolving 
door of his office building and when he pushed his 
way into the corridor she was waiting for an 
elevator. She turned as he approached and looked 
at him. A deep blush spread over her face and she 
bowed with a quick crisp nod. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


159 

He lifted his hat and looked over her head. 
“Good morning, Miss Elliot.” 

He followed her into the next elevator, staring at 
her profile as they rose to the editorial floor. She 
has a bad temper but a good nose. Nice modelling. 
I remember noticing golden glints in her eyes that 
night she ran after me with letters to sign. Before 
I knew Amy. Not long before. If she hadn’t had 
that annoying manner I might have asked her out to 
dinner. Probably would have started an office 
affair. “A bad business,” old Bill McMahon used 
to say. Yet he tried to kiss every new girl and if 
she told he gave her a wedding or funeral to cover. 
Wonder if Elliot likes her new job. She doesn’t 
look happy. Sorry now I changed her for that 
little dumbell Parks. 

The elevator floated to its precise station. Daniel, 
stepping out into the corridor, waited for Miss 
Elliot and as she came forth with lips pressed to¬ 
gether and face turned away from him, he fell 
into step beside her. 

“That new girl I have is a total loss,” he began. 
“I’d like to have you back. Will you come?” 

She did not answer. They approached the door of 
the city room in silence. 

He frowned at his shoes. Sullen as usual. Per¬ 
haps better off without her. Could make her come if 
I liked or have her fired. Why the hell can’t she 
learn to give and take? 

At the door he stood aside to let her pass. She 


160 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

stopped, fumbling with her handbag and twisting 
her head from side to side as if unable to select 
from her disturbance a suitable action or word. 

“All right,” she said unexpectedly in a quick 
loud voice. 

“Good,” said Daniel. He gazed with curiosity at 
her face as she went through the door. What’s the 
matter with her? She has tears in her eyes. That’s 
why she didn’t look up. What was she crying 
about? Perhaps the other girls teased her about 
being transferred. Well if she’d kept her mouth 
shut about Amy it wouldn’t have happened. Of¬ 
fices ought to have “No Gossiping” signs. Nobody 
here yet. Early enough to look over my mail in 
peace. 

He read telegrams and telephone messages and 
then sorted out personal letters from the mail. 
Mother’s writing. Glad she sends letters here 
instead of to the apartment. Amy might want 
to see. Hope father’s no worse. Pencil even for 
envelope. Her ink must be at last a water-saturated 
solution. 

He stretched out his legs and lighted a cigarette. 
He opened the letter. 

“Dear Dan: Your Pa says you are an unnatural 
son and he’s like a bear with a sore head in the 
house. He says your wife must be unnatural too or 
she would want to see your parents. Your Pa 
thinks maybe she will try to turn you against us 
and keep your money for herself. I tell him you 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 161 

won’t forget us, Danny. You were always a good 
boy if peculiar. But that’s because you have brains, 
I tell your Pa. Write soon when you will bring 
your bride. Ruth and Andy were saying yesterday 
it’s awful queer how you keep away. But tell your 
wife a warm welcome awaits her in Newark. Hop¬ 
ing to hear soon, Your loving mother, Annie Geer. 
P. S. Your Pa says to ask if your wife is a good 
Christian and hopes you will go to Divine Service 
with her on Sunday. It would be a good thing for 
you, he says.” 

He laid the letter on his desk. Pain and resent¬ 
ment. My position cannot be justified since it is a 
question of my pride. If I do my filial duty I’ll 
lose Amy’s respect. It’s not enough to say my 
family is humble. To be entirely honest I should 
show her the revolting details. I could pacify father 
by increasing the monthly check. But money 
wouldn’t comfort mother. Ruth doesn’t matter. 
She finished herself by marrying Andrew. Who’s 
this coming now? Office boy with an early an¬ 
noyance. 

“I suppose you think you don’t earn your fifteen 
per unless you’re running in here every few minutes. 
What is it now?” 

A feeble voice behind him coughed in apology. 
“Miss Elliot says you want to see me. Is it for 
dictation, Mr. Geer?” 

Daniel turned to a plump, loose-haired girl and 
flipped his fingers across her note-book. “No. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


162 

Never any more. Miss Elliot is coming back. Tell 
Mr. Trainer to have you changed.” 

“Oh. Then you haven’t any dictation?” She 
stared at him with frightened puzzled eyes, her 
voice as soft as a whisper. 

“No.” 

She went away and he reached for his other 
letters. Didn’t mean to terrify her. She’d better 
leave business and get married. Just the type 
some men would like. She’d say “Yes, sir” and 
“No, sir” in her marriage bed. Now who’s coming 
in here? 

It was Miss Elliot, her hair flatly netted and a 
freshly starched blouse under her blue serge coat. 

“Good,” said Daniel. “Now let’s get to work. 
Here are letters from yesterday. Do them over 
and get me the salary list. You haven’t forgotten 
where things are?” 

She smiled. “No, Mr. Geer.” 

He looked at her, taking in with a swift glance 
her slightly reddened eyelids and relaxed mouth. 
Her eyes turned to meet his gaze and revealed for a 
moment the sadness of a locked life. As he watched 
they hardened with a secret resentment that had 
turned back upon itself. Then her swollen lids fell 
over the hard hazel points of light. With an abrupt 
vehement gesture she snatched from the desk the 
letters he had indicated and hurried from the room. 

Daniel shrugged his shoulders and swung back 
to his desk. 


VIII 


He returned home at midnight. The hall boy 
was sitting at the telephone board, his ears engaged 
with a double receiver. Daniel gave the marred old 
elevator an impatient glance and started up the 
stairs. He ran up the first flight and half the second. 
Before his door he stopped to hang his umbrella on 
his arm and find his key ring. Fitting one of the 
slender keys into the lock, he smiled and turned it. 

“Here I am!” he called as he flung open the door. 

A wall of darkness and silence faced him. He 
stepped in and turned on the lights. The room was 
bare. Of his belongings, only two stringy curtains 
remained, flapping at the windows. 

“What the hell, ,, he said and ran into the bedroom. 
It, too, disclosed itself empty and blank. He stood 
in the doorway, blinking at the light and staring at 
a green shade that hung askew at the window. His 
hand went to his hat and pushed it back from his 
forehead in a gesture of bewilderment. 

“What the hell/’ he said again. “What—the— 
hell—” 

He ran out of the apartment and downstairs to 
the switchboard. The boy was still talking earnestly. 
Daniel put out his arm and dragged the metal 
163 


164 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

band from the wooly head. “Where’s my wife?” 
he demanded. 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Your wife, Mr. Geer?” 

“Yes!” shouted Daniel. “Where is she?” 

“I don’t know. She moved out mighty sudden—” 

A disk on the board dropped and whirred and the 
impulse to respond moved the boy’s arm toward the 
rubber tubes. “Got a call to Chicago on here,” he 
muttered. 

Daniel seized a bony shoulder and pressed it with 
his fingers. “Sam—did you see my wife? Where 
did she go?” 

Sam stared stupidly into Daniel’s distracted pale 
face. “I don’t know nothing. She give me five 
dollars and a letter.” His pink-tipped fingers began 
to pat his pockets. Shaking his head, he stood up 
and lifted the telephone directory from its place on 
top of the switchboard. “It ain’t here,” he said, 
peering at the wood. 

Daniel tightened his fingers and shook the narrow 
shoulder. His umbrella dislodged itself from his 
arm and banged to the floor. “If you’ve lost it I’ll 
break your back,” he said in a voice inflated to 
stridency. His chin began to tremble like a rabbit’s 
and a thin moisture was pressed out from the pores 
of his high forehead. 

“I ain’t lost it,” Sam protested. “Leggo my 
arm.” He lifted a pile of dishes on which lay 
crusts and a coffee cup. “Guess this is it.” He 
picked up an envelope from beneath the bottom plate. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


165 


Daniel moved violently and his hat fell off and 
rolled under the chair. He snatched and tore the 
paper in one gesture. 

“Dear Daniel,” he read. “Your surprise is ready at 
140 Riverside Drive. Come as soon as you get this. 
We will be waiting for you. Amy.” 

The hot anxiety in his face cooled 4 o astonishment 
and settled into lines of cold resolve. “What God 
damned nonsense is this ?” He waved his letter into 
the stupefied black face and Sam put his back against 
the board and raised a defensive elbow. Daniel 
stood glaring accusations. Neither moved. The 
disks of the board whirred again in compelling 
rhythm. Daniel turned slowly and scooped up his 
hat. He stepped over his umbrella and made for 
the door. 

In the street he began to run. The rain, col¬ 
lected into pools, made disregarded barriers for his 
flying feet. Two blocks away he found a taxicab 
and, panting, gave the address. “As fast as you can 
and damn the cops,” he said and jumped in to wait 
with stiff folded arms. 

The taxicab bumped over cobblestones and sang 
along wet asphalt. It rolled around corners and 
presently turned into Riverside Drive. Daniel 
leaned out of the window and stared at the stretch 
of lofty houses, their windows gently luminous in 
the misty midnight air. To his left the Hudson 
shone under sparse lights like a lake of black oil 
whose instinct for motion had been subdued by the 


166 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

threat of encircling cliffs. A sharp turn of the 
steering geer threw Daniel across the seat. The 
brakes caught at the wheels and the cab slid to a 
stop. He descended, paid and hurried through or¬ 
nate iron doors to arouse their nodding guardian. 

“Is Mrs. Geer staying with you?” 

The man pushed back his chair. “She’s in D. 
On the second. Said I was to bring you right 
up.” 

In the elevator Daniel buttoned his coat and 
straightened his hat. He saw the man’s eyes on his 
feet and glanced down at his oozing shoes. “Wet 
night,” he said. 

“That’s right. They say it’s good for the crops.” 

Daniel grunted and stepped out into the corridor 
to obey a directing finger. His ring was answered at 
once. A maid in black and white regarded his 
dishevelled wetness with doubtful eyes. 

“Are you Mr. Geer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Go right in, sir. They’re in the dining room.” 

He had started to walk down the hall but her 
words stopped him. His hand went to his hat and 
he allowed her to take it from his cold fingers. As 
he remained in indecision he heard Amy’s metallic 
laugh sounding among voices. Frowning, he turned 
on the maid. 

“I want to speak to my wife out here,” he said. 
“Go tell her—please.” 

He waited, walking back and forth, six steps to 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 167 

the door, six to the twisting of the hall. The maid 
returned. 

“They want you to come in,” she said. “They’re 
at table.” 

He clenched his hands as he walked at her heels. 
She led him to a door and he passed into a large and 
softly lighted room. At a flower-covered table sat 
Mrs. Fiske, Amy and Dr. Edwards. They faced 
him, waiting for his greeting with uplifted glasses. 

He met their eyes, stern and unsmiling. Amy, 
concern in her face, flung the scarlet train of her 
dress over her bare arm and left the table. 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said as she 
came to his side. 

Mrs. Fiske lifted her silver head and followed in 
severe black lace. Smiling a buoyant welcome, Dr. 
Edwards raised his heavy body from his chair and 
came last, a glass in his hand. 

“This is your surprise, Daniel.” Amy spoke 
again, holding out her hand. She took his clenched 
fingers into her nervous warm palm. 

He faced the three, obstinate pale eyes on the 
signs of their festivity. “What’s all this about?” 
His question, directed at Amy, ignored the presence 
of the others. “What’s happened at our apartment ? 
Where are my things?” 

Amy gave a nervous laugh and stepped back 
beside her mother. Red and black, they stood 
in feminine combination against his anger, the 
wariness of the weak in their gray eyes. Dr. 


168 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Edwards, lumbering up behind, held out his glass 
as a talisman of good humor and called over the 
women’s heads. 

“Well, Geer, I must say that’s a splendid ex¬ 
pression you’re wearing for your house warming. 
The supper is my contribution. The flowers are 
from young Harrington. Now don’t dress but sit 
down with an honest appetite. Duck and cham¬ 
pagne. Now then!” And as Daniel stood with a 
face of stone, he added, “Just try this glass of wine. 
Last of my cellar.” 

Daniel released himself from silence with a shake 
of the shoulders. “I don’t want wine or duck,” he 
said. “I want an explanation. Amy!” 

She summoned a vivid smile. “Don’t be an 
inelastic old bear. This is your surprise. We’re 
going to live here.” 

Mrs. Fiske had been watching Daniel. She did 
not wait for his comment to Amy but came forward 
at once and put the case in a modulated contralto 
voice that asked from him calm judgment and a 
reasonable viewpoint. “You can’t expect Amy to 
live in that bit of a box. No comfort, no room 
for anything.” She shook her distinguished head 
at him and smiled. “Oh, I daresay quite all right 
for a bachelor. But not appropriate now that you’re 
married to Amy.” 

Daniel replied with pale shaking lips. “Amy 
understood she was marrying a poor man.” 

“See here, Geer!” Raising his hand, Dr. Edwards 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 169 

came to challenge. “You can’t hide away any 
longer. You must take your place now as a success¬ 
ful man. This apartment is not expensive. I 
arranged the terms myself. Sublet furnished from 
some people I know. You’d better succumb to the 
three conspirators and sit down to supper.” 

Daniel did not look at Dr. Edwards. When the 
sound of his heavy voice had died away in the big 
room he resumed his attack on Amy. “You should 
have consulted me. I’m your husband. It’s for me to 
decide where we shall live since I pay the bills.” He 
motioned with hostility toward the flowers and wine. 
“I can’t afford this. We return home tomorrow.” 

Having set free this ultimatum, he stopped, 
swallowing and suddenly embarrassed in his anger, 
examining the scorn in Mrs. Fiske’s eyes and the 
dismay he had thrown upon Amy. Dr. Edwards was 
turning away, shrugging his wide shoulders and 
looking down at the glass in his hand. 

Amy touched her mother’s arm and gave her a 
signalling glance from sullen green eyes. Mrs. 
Fiske nodded and went to Dr. Edwards’ side. 

“Let’s have our supper,” she said. “You and I, 
Rufus, the calm and old. I leave strife and readjust¬ 
ments to the young people.” 

Amy went close to Daniel and laid her long white 
hand on his shoulder. “We’ll do whatever you think 
best, of course,” she said in a gentle voice. “But 
before you decide come with me. I have something 
to show you.” Her bare arm turned him about. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


170 

“Don’t quarrel before mamma,” she pleaded in a 
whisper. 

She led him across the hall and into a brown 
and yellow bedroom. “Yours,” she said. “Look.” 
She drew him to the bed. The silk cover and lace 
trimmed sheet had been turned back. On them lay 
his pyjamas, dressing gown and a pink chiffon 
nightdress. Arm in his and head against his 
shoulder, she began to speak. “I thought you’d 
like living here. I thought you’d be happy-—tonight 
—here with me.” She lifted her face of white 
velvet to his and her eyes were soft with disappoint¬ 
ment and tears. “We’ve worked for days. Mamma 
and Dr. Edwards were like children at Christmas. 
I never dreamed that you—” Her voice trembled 
as she studied his unrelenting face. 

“I’m sorry, Amy,” he said. “I want you to 
be happy. But this is impossible. I haven’t the 
money—” 

“But it’s not expensive,” she cried, opening her 
eyes. “Dr. Edwards told you—it’s a bargain, 
really.” 

“Not for a man in my position,” he replied, 
drawing away. “And that settles it.” 

Amy began to cry. “My beautiful surprise is a 
ghastly failure—tomorrow I’ll—have to—go back 
to that—dreadful place!” 

Daniel’s stiff shoulders began to relax. “But, 
Amy, you knew I couldn’t afford this luxury. You 
have no idea of the value of money—•” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 171 

‘‘Luxury, Daniel ?” Amazement shone as bright¬ 
ly as her tears. “This simple little place?” 

“Luxury,” he repeated in a convinced tone. “I’ve 
never considered living like this. Less than ever 
now I’m married. I have obligations. I must think 
of the future.” 

She .bent her head. A tear fell on his coat and he 
watched it glitter on the rough cloth. She pressed 
her perfumed hair against his cheek and slowly 
turned her head to gaze at him with a curious lighted 
look. Her lips began to swell. In a sudden move¬ 
ment she threw them against his mouth and they 
clung there. Her arms caught at him and climbed to 
encircle his neck. 

Daniel’s eyes, filled with the scarlet color of her 
dress and the whiteness of her neck, faltered and 
closed. His arms left his sides and went to press 
her naked shoulder more tightly against him. Hot 
blood flooded up through his cheeks and stained his 
high forehead. Powerless to move, he felt his 
anger and resolve drawn out of him by her soft 
strong mouth. Presently she drew away and went 
to snap off the lights, returning to him in darkness 
that flashed and palpitated. 


IX 


They walked back into the dining room hand in 
hand. Mrs. Fiske looked up in sharp agitation and 
Amy sent her a nod of elation. Her mother’s lips 
flickered upward. 

“Ah, Daniel, you changed after all,” she said and 
turned to Dr. Edwards. “My son-in-law looks 
rather well in a dinner jacket, I was telling him so 
last night.” 

Daniel bowed. “May I sit by you?” 

“I was hoping you would.” She gave a quick 
laugh of relief and looked at Amy settling herself 
in the opposite chair. 

Amy began to talk into Dr. Edwards’ large, genial 
face, making animated gestures strange to her list¬ 
less hands and laughing between her words as she 
begged him to choose slices of duck for her plate. 
She held out her glass to Daniel and he filled it twice 
before her thirst was satisfied. 

“That’s the psychological effect of prohibition,” 
said Mrs. Fiske. “I remember when one glass was 
enough. In fact, up to four months ago when she 
came to New York-” 

“No tales, mamma!” cried Amy. 

“No secrets, either,” said Dr. Edwards in his 


172 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 173 

booming voice, “secrets and husbands are a bad com¬ 
bination.^ 

“Not at all,” put in Mrs. Fiske. “If poor dear 
Arthur knew what I had spared him he would cry 
‘Thank you’ from his grave.” 

Daniel sat quietly before full plate and glass. He 
looked at Dr. Edwards, ripened into culture and 
habits of comfort. His gaze passed to Mrs. Fiske 
of sophisticated traditions and worldly charm. He 
glanced about the room, marking unobstrusive signs 
of good taste and enjoying the odors of food and 
flowers that played in his nostrils. My vita nuova 
of which I have dreamed all my life. I wish Bob 
and some of the unkempt Newark crowd could look 
in on me now, seated with a society woman and a 
famous amateur of the arts. Sunday supplement 
picture, “Daniel Geer, the well-known young editor, 
in his New York home. Mrs. Geer was a popular 
member of Boston’s younger set.” How beautiful 
love has made her tonight! She’s like a gorgeous 
tropical flower that has blossomed at last. Mother 
would be shocked at that dress’s lack above waistline 
and ankle. Grandmother said in her day young 
women had respect for their sex and proved it by the 
yardstick. She wore thirteen petticoats when she 
was married and slept in three of them. Amy’s 
night-dresses are veils, for the puritans have had 
their day. We relax among pagans and cultivate 
the sixth sense—beauty. La Beaute. Je suis belle , 
6 mortels, comme un reve de pierre. That might 


174 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


have been written for Amy. Her awakened body in 
marble would make a sculptor as famous as Phidias. 
Funny about Baudelaire always calling a woman a vil 
animal and never being able to think or write of 
anything else. Through women he sensed beauty 
as all men before him. Without women the aesthetic 
word would never have been spoken in the rough 
male struggle and the ethereal ichor from the veins 
of the gods would never have been tasted by mortals. 
Her cheeks still flaming from my kisses. Why do 
I please her? I didn’t know I understood the art 
of pleasing women. That book I had at high school. 
How to make love. How to court a bashful girl. 
How to make your girl love you. What to do be¬ 
fore or after the wedding. All information for ten 
cents, postage included. 

“Daniel,” Amy said softly. 

He received with a thrill her signal of gratitude 
and watched her lift her glass to him above the red 
rim of her gown, noting new bronze tints that 
her hair received from the light that filtered through 
the saffron silk of the hanging lamp. 

“Your Mona Lisa subtleties are gone tonight,” he 
said. “You are her highly colored young sister.” 

She laughed and held out her glass. “More cham¬ 
pagne, please. Fill it full!” 

Dr. Edwards fixed Daniel with the eye of a 
patron. “What’s the matter?” he inquired. “You 
haven’t touched a thing. Did you mean what you 
said—no wine no duck?” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


175 


“He’s been feasting his eyes,” said Mrs. Fiske. 
She smiled at him and gave his arm a playful poking 
with her finger. “I saw you. I see everything. Eat 
your supper, Daniel.” 

He looked about at the three faces and fetched a 
sigh of satisfaction. Shall I tell them I’ve never 
tasted duck or champagne before? No. My own 
counsel. 

His fingers closed on a fork and he looked with 
eyes of pride at Amy’s happy face. “Thanks. I 
guess I’m hungry after all,” he said. 


X 


Mr. Bird walked out of his office, polished stick 
hooked to his arm, gray hat and gray gloves in his 
hand. He swung importantly past the long city 
desk, glancing at the absorbed shaded faces bent 
over clippings and copy and at hands streaked with 
the ink of evening editions and sticky with con¬ 
tinuous dipping into pots of paste. The lull follow¬ 
ing the reporters’ rush of copy for the first edition 
lay over the room and only the typewriter of the 
dramatic critic still tapped, recording with few 
corrections his reactions to a wasted evening. 

The publisher turned to the right at the end of 
the city desk and halted behind Daniel and Trainer, 
standing there with a first page proof between them. 
“Busy, Mr. Geer?” 

Daniel looked up. “Just finishing. Thought I’d 
take the elevated wreck off page one. Grover tele¬ 
phoned no one hurt after all. The first reports, 
you know-” 

“Oh, well, well. Yes.” His rather stupid eyes 
wandered away in vague unseeing glances. “Can 
we step into your office a moment?” 

“Certainly. Come right in, Mr. Bird.” Daniel 
gave over the marked page to Trainer’s hands. Eyes 
turned surly. Jealous. Afraid I’ll get another com- 
176 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


177 

pliment. Wonder where Horace finds those gray 
hats? 

Mr. Bird passed through the door and turned. “I 
won’t detain you. Fact is, I want your address. 
Seems my wife knew Mrs. Geer at school and wants 
to renew the acquaintance.” 

Daniel gave him a delighted smile. “I’m sure 
Amy—my wife—she’ll be delighted—I’ll just write 
it down for you.” He went to his desk and un¬ 
screwed his fountain pen with nervous fingers. 
Lucky it’s the new apartment. Nothing to be 
ashamed of there though it may not be like his at 
the Ansonia. Um—140 Riverside Drive. That’s 
a good beginning. Mrs. Bird must have read about 
our marriage in the papers. Announcement carried 
in all. 

He brought back the card. “Thank you. I’ll 
tell Mrs. Geer.” 

Mr. Bird shook hands benevolently. “I’ll proba¬ 
bly drop in too. Some Sunday? Goodnight, Mr. 
Geer.” 

Daniel stood smiling in the doorway, noting that 
Trainer glanced over from his chair with unfriendly 
eyes fixed on Mr. Bird’s departure. Envious sour 
disposition. Always one sorehead in every office. 
He’ll sneer himself out of his job one of these days. 
Shall I telephone the news to Amy? Better not. 
Operators always listen to personal calls. I’ll be 
home in half an hour. Take along that book on the 
South Sea tribes. Subway reading bad for the 


178 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

eyes. I’ll be wearing glasses in ten years—one of 
the prices paid for print. Carry overcoat. Warm. 
Won’t say goodnight to Trainer’s glumness. Now 
out before anyone stops me with business or banali¬ 
ties. 

In the street he stepped into a gentle May wind 
that announced the coming of June. A hot summer 
expected, they say. Wonder how Amy stands city 
heat. She’s looking tired out. Drawn and white 
every morning. No breakfast for two weeks. Can’t 
eat with me in the morning but lively enough at 
night to run around with Corning. Hope she’s 
over her Bar Harbor idea. I want a quiet week at 
some Staten Island inn. Trip to Maine expensive. 
If she knew about my raise she’d be off on another 
shopping tour, never thinking to add up rent, food, 
maid, income tax, monthly check to Newark and a 
thousand incidentals. I must find a way to beat the 
spending game. Old Rufus’ fault. Always encour¬ 
aging her with a playful eye on me. 

“Paper sir ? All about the big wreck-” 

He looked down on the unwarranted headlines 
of a notorious rival. 

The boy shook them in his face. “Buy a paper, 
sir?” 

Daniel pushed him aside and went down into the 
dank tunnel that burrowed its metal path the length 
of the city. My day ends as it begins—in the sub¬ 
way. Carried to work. Carried home. Even the 
savages of this book have a choice in their method 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


179 


of locomotion. They may walk, run, swim, paddle 
or ride a board through the surf. Time to think 
there. I used to fill hours with books and reflection. 
Le temps mange la vie. So does marriage. My 
time now eaten by a woman and my tranquillity has 
become a boiling pot of emotion and will struggling 
against will. My brain cells plead for nourishment 
but they must ruminate on mnemonics. When leis¬ 
ure is recovered they’ll be hardened. I’ll be incapable 
of fresh reasoning in the contemplative age that re¬ 
fuses the activity of creative thought. Perhaps I’ll 
pack my books and put off for those islands. No, 
I’d be sure to meet someone from the office, since the 
Pacific chain has become a popular old age resort. 
Better find a place as deserted as Azof or Baikal 
where stones will make better companions than 
broken-down men. 

A train roared to the platform, sending stale air 
to beat violent waves against the sides of the tun¬ 
nel. Daniel entered and found an empty corner. He 
opened his romantic book and read until his station 
slid into sight, the car windows framing it for a 
moment before they shot off to seek other impatient 
places of waiting. 

The green book tight under his arm and head bent 
back, he walked to Riverside Drive. Cities too 
luminous to receive the charm of starlight. Those 
savages knew and loved the stars but civilization has 
lost that interest. Must get out my old star chart 
this summer. Wonder if Amy would like it. Get 


i8o THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

new thumb tacks for Uranus and Mercury. Father 
took them for his new mown hay girl calendar. 
Said something pretty to look at better than a nebula 
100,000 light years away. “Yes, father, but doesn’t 
it excite you to think of the hundreds of stars in 
that nebula that are brighter than our sun by ten 
thousand times?” “No, and I don’t believe it. 
Neither do I believe our Heavenly Father meant for 
us to go poking our noses in his business.” The 
night I told him what we see doesn’t exist. If my 
salary envelope hadn’t been in my pocket he would 
have beaten me from the house. Funny how a few 
dollars make the most religious churchgoers com¬ 
promise with blasphemy. No religion ever made 
honest men of its followers. Trust a Mohammedan 
as little as a Christian—a Buddhist no farther than 
a Jew. I’ll take the atheists. Usually too intelligent 
to be crooks. 

The elevator man held the door for his entrance 
with a respectful arm. “Anything big in the 
papers?” he asked. 

“No,” said Daniel. “Nothing important.” 

“My wife’s cousin used to be in your line,” the 
man remarked. “Said it was interesting work. He 
had a big district—used to use the telephone till he 
got the earache.” 

“Too bad,” said Daniel, pushing his way out. 
“Thank you. Goodnight.” He let himself in and 
walked to the drawing room door. At the card 
table sat Amy, Elizabeth Corning and two men. A 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 181 

tea wagon beside them held bottles, glasses and a 
bowl of ice. The air was serried with smoke. He 
stood there watching them, unobserved in his grow¬ 
ing displeasure. Why does she turn my home into 
a night club? No wonder she feels ill in the morn¬ 
ing. My foot down on this nonsense. Who are 
these men ? Why has she worn her geranium dress ? 
I’ll let them see they have outstayed their welcome. 

“Good evening/’ he said from the doorway. Amy 
looked up and nodded. 

“We’re having a late session,” she called. “Your 
supper is ready in the dining room, Daniel.” He 
did not move away and she added, “You know Mr. 
Harrington. And this is Mr. Booth.” The men 
started to rise and she pulled them down. “Don’t 
stop, please, or we’ll never get this rubber played. 
Daniel won’t mind. Lead’s in the dummy, Sydney.” 

“I want to speak to you, Amy.” 

She did not look up. “Right-O. As soon as I’m 
dummy I’ll come in.” 

He turned away and went into the dining room. 
Well, if that’s what they call Four Hundred man¬ 
ners give me Newark. As much courtesy as you 
find in a business office. Like that night at Old 
Rufus’ house when they all sat on the floor shaking 
dice like niggers and no one troubled to introduce 
me. 

He sat down and served himself to cold meat and 
salad. What’s this Sydney hanging around Amy 
for. Sending flowers and books as if she weren’t 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


182 

my wife. Where’s his wife? Bet he isn’t sending 
her any of those recuerdos he wrote in the front of 
her Greek Studies. He probably thinks he looks like 
a Greek study. Handsome enough head if your 
taste runs to moving picture actors. Night she 
called him Sydney-my-dear. Buys blue hyacinths 
instead of a haircut. Takes cream in his tea. 
Cushion and cream for the tailor’s model. Spats 
and Latin verse for the damned China fancier. 
“Ming? Oh, that’s rather too late, you know.” 
Queer looking dinner coat, he has. Not made here. 
From some sartorial hot-house in London. He’d 
better look for another roosting place. 

Pushing back his chair he went to the sideboard 
and lifted a carafe of claret to the light. Glows 
like melted rubies. Might as well drink it before the 
catamite finds it. Perhaps he likes to supplement 
his cream diet. They’re being quiet in there. I 
managed to put a little damper on them. Might 
look in through the curtains. No, they’d see them 
moving. 

He went to the wide doorway, sipping from his 
glass and attentive to the murmured cliches of the 
game that were muffled by the velvet folds before 
him. Amy’s metallic voice announced “Our game. 
How were the honors? You should have led 
through weakness there.” Sydney’s languid reply 
to the rallies of the business-like Miss Corning and 
the undistinguished intonations of the bald Mr. 
Booth bore me into finishing this wine. I’ve been 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


183 


gone all day but am left to have my supper alone. 
I’m transformed already into the typical American 
husband, important only when something’s wanted 
that costs money. She’s too tired to breakfast with 
me in the morning and too busy to speak to me at 
night. “Right-O. As soon as I’m dummy.” I 
don’t expect a rush to bring my slippers but I’m 
entitled to ordinary interest. 

As he sat down the curtains parted and admitted 
Amy, radiant in her red dress, a cigarette between 
her lips. “Everything all right?” she asked. “What 
did you want to tell me?” 

“Sit down a minute. It’s good news.” 

She removed her cigarette and gave him an eager 
smile. “I can guess. They’ve promoted you. With 
more money. How wonderful!” 

He set his mouth more firmly into place, looked 
at her coldly and laid down his fork. “Sorry. It 
has nothing to do with money.” 

Amy cooled. Hand on hip, she walked to the end 
of the table and drew a rose from the spreading 
blue bowl. “I ought never to mention money to you. 
It always makes you angry.” She smelled the rose 
and stood twirling its stem, her narrow lower lip 
caught between her pointed teeth. Her eyes, turned 
away from his annoyed gaze, were shadowed by blue 
stains. 

“Come here.” He spoke without sharpness and 
she moved toward him slowly, too indifferent to be 
surprised at his demand. He caught at her hand 


184 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

and pulled her closer. “Amy, are you well? You 
look ill tonight. Big circles under your eyes. You 
never used to have them.” 

She threw him a defensive glance and turned 
away. “Oh, yes. I’ve always had them.” 

“No,” he said holding her wrist. “I remember 
the day I lit a match for you—in that little restau¬ 
rant near my office—I held it for your cigarette and 
noticed the blue under your eyes was so faint it 
might have been the shadow from your veil.” She 
did not answer but lifted her cigarette and inhaled 
slowly. “Too many cigarettes. You drink too much. 
You go to bed too late. You can’t even get up to 
breakfast any more. If you can’t take care of your 
health, I’ll do it for you.” 

Amy lifted her eyes and revealed them startled 
sentinels. “Don’t worry about me, silly. I’m quite 
all right. What did you have to tell me ?” 

“Tonight as I was leaving Horace Bird came in 
and asked for our address. Guess why.” 

“I can’t.” 

“He said his wife wants to call on you. She 
knew you at school.” He leaned back, smiling and 
expectant. “I didn’t invite them to dinner. I didn’t 
know if that would be the proper-” 

“Of course not. Who is Mrs. Bird?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Amy drew back the curtains. “Elizabeth, who 
married Horace Bird? She says she went to Miss 
Spence’s with me.” 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


185 

“Oh, you know. That dark little thing—queer 
eyes—baking powder family—pick up your trick, 
Sydney—Alice—Alice Middleton.” 

“Alice Middleton!” Amy turned and confronted 
Daniel with the name. “But she’s impossible. So¬ 
cial climber and dull. I won’t be bored with her.” 

Daniel’s pale downy eyebrows shot upward. 
“But—it’s a great honor—I mean it would be con¬ 
sidered—Mr. Bird never mixes in the office-” 

“Honor!” She laced her long fingers together 
before her and the silk of her dress showed between 
them like blood. “She would like to meet some of 
the people I know—that’s the honor. You don’t 
understand these things.” 

“But it would help me in the office—you see that ? 

Couldn’t you put up with-” 

She looked at him and the life went out of her 
face, leaving a static sadness on her eyes and mouth. 

“Of course, Daniel. After all, it’s very little-” 

She broke off and the lines deepened under her eyes 
and from nose to lips until she wore a faint qualita¬ 
tive resemblance through indicated moulding to a 
Melpomene mask. She lifted her head as if it were 
too heavy for her abating strength and touched him 
with a look of pain and regret. The intensity of her 
eyes and her sudden weakness alarmed him. He 
put out his hand and as he moved Sydney’s voice 
called her name. Her muscles responded and her 
body became taut. She swept aside the curtains and 
called, “Ready for me? Who won?” 




i86 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Daniel jumped up. He followed her into the 
drawing room, eyes on her steady shoulders and 
clicking red heels. As she sat down he reached the 
table, indifferent to the inquiry Miss Corning and 
Sydney turned on his approach. He leaned down 
to Amy’s naked shoulder and spoke in a quiet tone. 
“I think you’ve played enough for tonight,” he 
said. “You aren’t feeling well and should go to 
bed.” 

No one moved. The men sat with eyes fastened 
to the cards. Amy called out a smile at last. “Are 
you playing the masterful husband with me?” she 
said. “How amusing!” 

Elizabeth Corning stood up. “I think he’s right, 
Amy,” she said in her brittle voice. “You look quite 
ill, my dear. Let’s stop and save the score for next 
time.” She moved away in the direction of the 
door with a nod to Mr. Booth. 

Amy looked at Sydney. “Do you mind? And 
you, Harry? It was about even anyway, I think.” 
Her long fingers gathered the cards. Both men 
stirred and prepared to rise. Daniel stood awk¬ 
wardly at the edge of the table, embarrassed by his 
facile victory. 

“Goodnight,” he said. “I’ll go finish my supper.” 
He offered his hand to Mr. Booth who jumped up 
and shook it with brief boredom. Sydney pulled 
himself to his feet with a long graceful motion. 

“Goodnight,” he drawled. He surveyed Daniel 
with deliberately unconcealed amusement and an air 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


187 


of secret triumph. Daniel wilted under his satirical 
mocking eyes. He muttered “Goodnight” and went 
back quickly into the dining room. From the shelter 
of the curtains he saw Mr. Booth’s head shining 
under the light as he talked at the door to Elizabeth 
Corning. Arranging the velvet hangings so that 
the opening framed the figures of Amy and Sydney, 
he watched their faces turning to each other with 
eagerness and the meeting of their eyes and hands. 
Then Sydiney lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed 
it slowly. 

“A demain,” he said. They separated and Daniel 
listened to the murmur of words in the hall until 
the outer door closed. He was at the table when 
Amy returned. 

“Haven’t you finished yet?” she said. Her face 
had faded above her cardinal dress and her eyes 
were weary and indifferent. 

He studied her, sitting back from the table with 
folded arms. Why should I hesitate to speak? 
Frankness better than wounded silences. “Amy,” 

he said, “Amy, I-” He paused and her attention 

wavered and was gone. She yawned. “You like 
Mr. Harrington, don’t you?” he said abruptly. 

Her mouth closed. She looked at him, nodding 
her head. “Yes. Very much.” 

“And his wife. Do you like her too?” 

Amy lifted her shoulders. “Well, she is older. 
She doesn’t fit in exactly. She has her own friends.” 

He leaned forward. “Do you think you should 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


188 

see so much of him now you’re married? You do 
see him often, don’t you?” 

His serious interest was evident. As if to ward 
it off she took a lighter tone. “We have tea some¬ 
times—or go to the theatre. We like the same sort 

of things—the exchange of ideas-” She gave 

him a challenging look that released a hidden hos¬ 
tility. “Surely you don’t mind?” 

He considered this, frowning at her from under 
bent eyebrows. Better be careful how I answer. 
It would be ridiculous for her to get the idea I’m 
jealous. Men like that always kiss women’s hands. 
They like to ape European customs. Often saw it 
in France. Doesn’t mean anything. “No, I don’t 
mind. He’s not a type of man I admire but if he’s 
a friend of yours, go ahead. But I wouldn’t run it 
into the ground if I were you.” 

“Run what into the ground?” 

“Seeing him, I mean.” 

She smiled. “Oh, of course. There won’t be 
much chance now. I’m going to Boston next week 
to see mamma. She’s going to help me about my 
summer things.” 

He stared. “You’re going to Boston?” 

“Only for a fortnight. When I come back we’ll 
go away for your holiday.” She stretched her arms 
and turned away. “I’m quite exhausted. I must 
sleep.” 

He watched her trail from the room, swaying 
slightly from side to side, her usual movements ex- 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 189 

aggerated by fatigue. He got up and put out the 
lights, guided to the hall by the light outside. Un¬ 
dressing in the brown and yellow bedroom, he 
whistled between his teeth and frowned. What did 
she mean about getting summer things? Sounds 
like spending more money. Can’t have that. Better 
tell her so before she involves me with her mother. 
I’ll have to settle it before she turns my inattention 
into a promise. 

Tieing the belt of his dressing gown, he went to 
knock at Amy’s door. She had taken off the red 
dress and it lay on a chair, emptied and inexpressive 
except for its singing color. She was sitting before 
a mirror brushing out her mantle of hair with hands 
that moved wearily. 

“I can’t do one hundred strokes tonight,” she 
said. “I’m too tired.” 

He went to her side and took the brush from her 
fingers. “Here,” he said. “Let me.” 

She leaned back in her chair. “It’s a great nuis¬ 
ance,” she said. “You’ll be bored.” 

Laughing, he gathered up her hair in both hands. 
“No. I love to touch your hair. It’s alive. I often 
watch the lights in it while you’re talking.” She did 
not answer and he saw her face reflected in the 
glass. Her eyes were closed and she was not listen¬ 
ing. “Amy, go to bed at once. You’re falling 
asleep. Here now.” He picked her up in his arms 
and held her drooping against his shoulder. “I’ll 
undress you.” He led her to the bed and pressed 


190 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


her into the pillows where she lay motionless and 
limp. His spatulate fingers untied the ribbon of 
the only garment she wore and pulled it from her 
shoulders to the waist where it lay folded, a thin 
pink veil. His eyes moved over her. She’s changed 
in some subtle way. Marriage. They say it changes 
women. Why? I don’t know. They’re more sen¬ 
sitive than men perhaps. But not to the cold. I’d 
have pneumonia if I wore only that transparent 
whatever-it-is and a dress. 

He bent over her and laid his hand on her fore¬ 
head. “Amy—dearest—let me put you into bed. 
I’ll stay and rub your temples. May I ?” 

She opened her eyes and made a movement to 
cover her body. “Oh, no, Daniel. I’m too tired. 
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be quite all right.” She 
sat up and reached to the pillow for her night dress. 
He watched her draw it over her head with a swift 
enclosing gesture. “I won’t get up in the morning, 
I think. But come and speak to me before you go.” 

Looking down on her, he stood breathing the 
warm air that rose, perfumed, from her flesh. “I 
don’t like to have you go to Boston, I can’t think 
of not seeing you for two weeks. Is it necessary?” 

“Yes. My summer clothes. I have a little seam¬ 
stress there who does the simpler things—very clever 

_ >> 

“Amy!” Now for it. Must be severe for my 
own sake. She knows what’s coming. Her eyes 
have taken the defensive. “You mustn’t spend any 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


191 

more money for a long time. Get along with the 
clothes you already have. You have trunks in there 
full of clothes.” 

She made an exasperated gesture. “You know 
nothing about it. Most of my things are two years 
old. I can’t possibly wear them.” 

“But you don’t have to dress like a queen of 
fashion. You’re not in society now. What differ¬ 
ence does it make ?” 

She looked at him stiffly, lips curled and angry. 
He met her resistance with determined cold eyes, 
armed against her will. “Why do you save money, 
Daniel ? A man with your future—a career as cer¬ 
tain as if it were locked in a safe!” 

“What makes you think I save money ?” 

“It’s common sense. Everyone knows you have 
a big salary. We don’t spend it all.” 

His nostrils dilated above white lips. “Then 
everybody is mistaken. My salary just about 
stretches over the demands made on it.” He put 
out his closed hands in an unaccustomed effort at 
physical expression. “By God, I wish I knew some¬ 
one who wasn’t trying to get money out of me!” 

“Daniel!” She stumbled up from bed and stood 
rebuking him with devastating eyes. “What a vul¬ 
gar—what an impossibly vulgar-!” She was 

breathing quickly, stung out of coherency. “You 
can’t say things like—go out of my room!” 

Turned to stone by her outbreak, he watched the 
twitching muscles of her face. “Vulgar, impossibly 



192 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


vulgar.” What did I say? That I wish I knew 
someone who didn’t want my money. No. I said 
I wish I knew someone who wasn’t trying to get 
money out of me. That was crude. But she’s 
hypersensitive. I’ll be more careful. Same thing at 
Atlantic City about the bracelet and she hardly ever 
wears it after all. She’s crying. Shall I conciliate? 
Better try. “I’m sorry I spoke like that,” he began. 
“Please forgive me. I’ve sufferd so much through 
money-” 

She turned her back and he watched her bare 
shoulders moving with the violence of her sobs. 
“Please go,” she said in a choked voice. 

“Not until you forgive me.” My tone solemn and 
subdued. She’ll like that and read into it my devo¬ 
tion and repentance. I can’t leave her like this, 
weeping and hating me. I must kiss her. Her 
mouth swollen as it was the night here when she 
responded to love for the first time. “Amy-” 

He moved toward her and hearing his step she 
turned on him, her face flushed and corroded by 
tears. “Will you go ?” she cried. He did not move 
but stood looking at her with pleading eyes. After 
a moment's pause in which she seemed to be sum¬ 
moning in vain the will to control her anger, she 
rushed at him and began pushing him toward the 
door that stood open at his back. He did not re¬ 
sist but accepted from surprise the motion she com¬ 
municated to him. Thus, walking backward, he was 
impelled over the threshold and into the hall, where 




THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


193 


he stopped and watched the door swing forward at 
his face. It slammed shut and the key turned in 
the lock with a vicious little click of finality. 

Leaning against the door he listened. Lve won 
a sad victory. But if it keeps her from going to 
Boston next week it was worth it. Never would 
have thought she had such a temper. Red hair, I 
suppose. Red hair, red temper. She’s moving about 
the room. Opening the dresser drawers. What is 
she looking for? Can’t see. Key in the way. I’d 
better go to bed. She’ll be all right in the morning. 

He went into the drawing room and poured out a 
drink of whiskey from the bottle on the tea wagon. 
Probably that cream-lapper would know better how 
to manage her. He’d bow in his London coat and 
kiss her hand. “Anything your heart desires, my 
fair one.” Palaver is what wins women. Gallant 
lies and dancing-teacher manners. Can’t be direct 
and simple with them. Cajolery and smirks, flum¬ 
mery and general buncombe. 

In the hall he paused again by her door and 
knocked. “Amy! Won’t you say goodnight?” 
She’s still stirring things about. What can she be 
looking for at this hour ? 

Her voice, husky and dry, reached him, speaking 
a calm “Goodnight.” 

“Don’t you want to go to bed now?” he went 
on. “You’ll be sick if you don’t get more sleep.” 
He waited, ear against the wood, through a long 
pause for her reply, listening to the inexplicable 


194 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

sounds of her activities. “Amy, what are you do¬ 
ing ?” 

“Packing my bags/’ she answered. “I’m going 
to Boston in the morning.” Her tone was dogmatic, 
impervious to argument, and its indicative hardness 
repelled him like a blow. He drew back from the 
door and stared with enmity at the panelling that 
protected her from his presence. Then thrusting 
his hands into the pockets of his dressing robe, he 
strode down the corridor and slammed himself into 
the brown and yellow room. 


XI 


Daniel opened the door and drew his mother into 
the hall, returning her clumsy caress. In her 
weathered dress of black silk with its frayed lace 
collar she looked frail and oppressed by the weight 
of all her dreary years. 

“Well, Dan. I got here all right. I left the 
dishes and wrapped your pa up in his chair.” 

“I’m glad to see you, mother.” 

He kissed her again and she clung to him, looking 
up with timid eyes that were filled with a stagnant 
and melancholy love. Her hat sitting loosely on her 
head had released wisps of gray hair which hung in 
a fringe on the back of her neck. She spoke in a 
whisper, glancing beyond him. “Is she in there?” 

He caught her shrunken waist in his arm and led 
her to the drawing room. “No. She’s still in Bos¬ 
ton. I thought she’d be back when I wrote you 

_ >> 

Mrs. Geer made a clicking sound of disappoint¬ 
ment. “Now that’s too bad. In Boston, is she? 
Was her ma taken sick?” 

“No. She’s just visiting.” He twisted away from 
the questions in her eyes, pushing his hands deep 
into his pockets and rattling his keys. 


i95 



196 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

She did not release him from her gaze but con¬ 
sidered his words gravely. “Too bad. They’re all 
waiting to hear about your wife. Well-” 

He interrupted her. “I’m sorry Amy’s not here, 
mother. She expected to be back last week. Some¬ 
thing came up, I suppose.” He began to speak 
rapidly, avoiding her flaccid troubled face. “Take 
off your hat. Sit down here—this chair. Now tell 
me about father and Ruth. Has it been hot in 
Newark? You’re going to come out to dinner with 
me tonight and then I’ll put you on a train.” 

Studying his worn harried face she sat down 
on the edge of a chair and raising both stiff arms, 
lifted off her hat. “I can’t stay long. Pa’s all 
alone and Ruthie couldn’t get over because Junior’s 
got a rash and they’re afraid of the measles. If 

the other two catch it—in her condition-! A 

house full of sick children makes a heap of work. 
You and Ruthie come down the same week with 
measles and oh me, oh my, what a time I had!” 
She sighed and her eyes began to wander about the 
room, in a careful inventory of furniture, rugs, 
draperies. . . . 

Daniel waited. She’s preparing a verbal recon¬ 
struction of my apartment for her Newark audience. 
I hope she’ll defend Amy’s absence against the ma¬ 
levolence of father and Andrew. Poor mother! 
Ageing, ageing. Her lined face lacks the happy 
kindly crinkles of old age and the chronicle of her 
joyless life runs through my memory. She, too, 




THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


197 


had her secret things—her penetralia. That sun¬ 
dial inscription. “Each hour wounds; the last one 
kills.” No one to oil her wounds or comfort her 
at youth’s passing. Not father. Nor I. Perhaps 
Ruth- 

“You ain’t looking well,” his mother said sud¬ 
denly. She put out her hand and grasped his 
fingers, pulling at them to compel his eyes down to 
hers. “You’re kind of peaked.” 

He gave her a weak smile of reassurance and with¬ 
drew his hand. “What do you think of my place? 
We rented it furnished, you know. And the owner 
of the paper and his wife are coming to call—as 

soon as Amy-” He moved across the room 

slowly and fell to gazing at the wall. 

She followed, her floating skirt touching the floor 
at each step. “Danny.” She laid her hand on his 
arm. “You ain’t happy. I could see it the minute 
I walked in the front door. Is it your wife, sonny?” 
A maternal apprehension tightened the muscles of 
her face and her pale blue eyes swelled with tears 
as they strained at him. 

He shook his head. “Would you like a cup of 
tea? I let the maid go out this afternoon but I can 
make it.” 

Her shiny knotted hand remained on his, unde¬ 
ceived. “Have you got a hired girl ?” 

“Oh, yes, mother. In a large apartment like this 
—it was different in Eighty-First Street.” 

“Now, Dan, this ain’t as large as a house after 




198 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

all. When we had the old place outside Newark, I 
did all my own work—even the washing.” 

His eyes rested on the hand over his—the dis¬ 
torted fingers—shapeless nails- “It’s not the 

same thing. Amy’s been brought up in a different 
way. But come see the other rooms.” He led her 
through the hall. “This is mine. Windows on the 
court. It’s always quiet at night.” He watched her 
move about, bending to look at the chairs and touch¬ 
ing the yellow silk of the coverlet. The monstrous 
ingratitude in human nature. In loving unquestion¬ 
ing labor she lived, a menial in my father’s house, 
unpaid, unpraised, set aside at conferences. And I 
shrink from the signs of her service, dreading Amy’s 
eyes at the inevitable meeting, sparing myself today 
the glances of a servant. 

Mrs. Geer, now at the dressing table, stroked the 
glass top. “What’s this for? I s’pose to make the 
wood look shiny. That’s a good idea. Your wall 
paper is real pretty, Dan.” She paused and poked 
his brushes. “Where are her things? Did she take 
them with her ?” 

“In the next room. I’ll show you—it’s all pink 
and white. Say, mother, there’s her picture on the 

wall. It’ll give you an idea-” He crossed the 

Mexican rug and took down a framed photograph. 
“She has red hair—a beautiful color.” 

She took the picture from his hands with an eager 
jerky gesture and went to the window. Her chin 
moved up and down as she scrutinized the face 




THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


199 

under the nuances of light that shone on the glass. 
Following, he looked over her shoulder. 

“It was taken before I knew her,” he said. They 
stood gazing at the oval face, receiving its smile 
that was tainted with mockery. The pointed teeth, 
contrasting high lights of the sepia print, gleamed 
and gave an exaggerated, laniary appearance to the 
riveted smile. He sighed, leaning toward his mother 
until his cheek touched her shoulder. There’s the 
familiar smell of her unaired clothes closet. And 
Amy’s garden scents still over my room. Even now 
those eyes seem virginal to me and I may leave them 
without guilt for the sweet column of her neck, 
whiter than Greece. Was this worn and musty 
woman by my side once an instrument of love? 
Blushing at father’s clumsy embrace. Then came 
maternity and the crushing process and me and my 
reactions. Mother love and father hate. Freud’s 
CEdipus Rex horror. May have been natural in the 
beginning of things. Taking advantage of propin¬ 
quity to insure propagation. That instinct still per¬ 
sists, fastening itself on a few individuals whose 
lives lie on them like a doom and whose libido can¬ 
not be freed from the image of their mother. 
Father hate commoner. Mine was a mania. 
Wanted to kill. Really a murderer in all but deed. 
Those long evenings when he had sent me to bed. I 
lay planning how I should do it, carefully building 
up every detail, nursing the hate that motivated all 
my thoughts, lustful of the blow I visualized. 


200 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“There, God damn you!” I said it over and over, 
accompanying each new device with it. One blow 
was never enough. I rained them down until his 
skull was in splinters. Then came the obliterations 
and the race against time. I hid him in a sack with 
weights and sank it in Corbin’s pond. Or dug a 
grave in the daisy field through a moonless night. 
Then with hands nicely washed I presented myself 
at the breakfast table to smile at mother, “No, I 
haven’t seen him. Perhaps he went to town early.” 

He shifted his eyes from the shabby lines of his 
mother’s profile. She sighed and spoke in a subdued 
and uncritical tone. “She fixes her hair real stylish, 
don’t she ?” 

Daniel turned to her sharply. “Mother! Is that 
the only—but don’t you think she’s beautiful?” 

Pursing her lips, she nodded and released the 
frame. “I hope her heart’s as pretty as her face,” 
she said and seeing the disappointment in his eyes, 
added, “I’ll love her when I see her—if she makes 
my boy happy.” She set back her shoulders and 
watched him return the picture to its nail, following 
each movement with brooding eyes, as his large 
shoulders altered the shape of his brown coat in 
stretching out his arm. She went slowly to his dress¬ 
ing table and laid her hands on his brushes. “Why 
have you got different rooms—you and her?” 

Smiling nervously, he came to her side and took 
her arm. “What an old-fashioned mother I have! 
Married people don’t have the same room any more. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


201 


Besides Amy can’t sleep unless she’s alone. She’s 
not used to having-” 

She interrupted, “Neither was I. But I soon got 
used to it. And before long you was there in your 
cradle in a corner. It don’t seem human to have a 
wall between man and wife.” 

He looked down at the rug in silence. It must 
have been pleasant, that old-fashioned custom. I 
long to sink into sleep, touching her hair or hand— 

to awake and hear her breathing- Modern 

honeymoons are based on reason and the advice of 
the family physician. How distant are the orgies 
of Eleusis, now sun-baked and strewn with stones— 
the mysteries of Demeter and Persephone. Why 
did they call them mysteries ? Everyone knows what 
will happen when wine flows and the sexes drink to¬ 
gether under an Attic moon. 

“How long has she been gone?” His mother was 
peering at him and he shook ofT his abstraction. 

“Oh, not long. About three weeks,” he said 
carelessly. 

“Why, Dan!” Her voice mounted and ended on 
a high, plaintive note. “You don’t call three weeks 
long? And you just married?” 

“Perhaps, normally, I should think so. But she 
hasn’t been well-” 

Mrs. Geer laid her hand on his sleeve and turned 
him about to face her. “Did you have any words 
when she went away?” 

He hung his head. “No.” 





202 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“And you’ve written often?” 

“I’m too busy to write fancy letters, mother. I 
sent her a telegram Friday telling her to come back.” 
A flush rose in his face and he moved uneasily under 
her hand and eyes. 

“Danny,” she said slowly. “I’m afraid this is 
your fault.” 

He stepped back and faced her across the rug. 
“Now, mother, I won’t have you putting me in the 
wrong. Amy has a defect that I must correct. Her 
family never taught her the value of money. If I 
let her alone she’d run me into debt. I spoke to her 
about this and she—well, she didn’t like it.” 

His mother, stirred from her torpid existence, 
stood against him, old and plain, corroded by a life 
of baffled gestures toward beauty and defective ten¬ 
dernesses of mind. Her intuitional penetration into 
the cause of his suffering lent her life a larger cein- 
ture and the sex bond with her unknown daughter 
estranged for the moment her husband and her son. 
“I didn’t use to like it either,” she said. “I re¬ 
member when I was a bride- You’re just like 

your pa about money. You’re a good boy and you’re 
just, but you was never one for splurging your 
extra pennies around. Give Ruthie a dime and she’d 
come home with a stick of candy for everybody. 
Yours went in your bank.” 

“Ma!” Daniel’s face twisted with pain. He spoke 
in a shrill voice and leaned across the rug, chin 
thrust out against this injustice. “That isn’t fair! 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


203 


What about that time I gave you all Fd saved toward 
the washing machine? And the summer you were 
sick.” He paused to recover from the sense of being 
again a boy of fifteen, pinned under the authority of 
the paternal roof tree. 

“You did, Dan. I’m not belittling it. But I know 
your natural bent about money.” 

He stood there awkwardly, humiliated by his 
puerile temper, ravaged by weeks of suffering, 
wounded by his mother’s lack of understanding for 
his ordered ways. His arms hung, lifeless, at his 
sides and his eyes turned their pained gaze on her 
eyes. Silently each reproached the other. Then her 
expression grew steady and reflective. 

“Well, Dan. What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know. She’s angry. Hasn’t answered 
the telegram.” His face broke and whitened. “What 
if she doesn’t come back? She’s so high-strung and 
proud. I feel like a blundering—well, peasant is 
the best word. Like the husband in the Lady of 
Lyons—remember? You took Ruth and me years 
ago—one Saturday afternoon at the Opera House 

_ >> 

Mrs. Geer was not listening. With arms folded 
across her rounded abdomen she watched a sparrow 
hop along the window sill, poise his head and make 
off with a straining fluttering of short wings. “See 
here, Dan. How far is it to Boston?” 

“Five hours—or six.” 

“That’s easy, Dan. You just jump on a train, 



204 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


make it up and bring her back tomorrow morning.” 

“She wouldn’t come—and her mother would back 
her up.” 

“Never mind her mother. You go get your wife.” 
He stared at her doubtfully and she give him a nod 
of encouragement. “Do what I tell you, Danny. 
You’ll see. Women ain’t changed much, I guess, 
since I was a girl.” 

He continued to stare at her. His eyes brightened 
and a flush spread over his face, blotting out the 
lines traced by wakeful nights. Drawing himself 
up, he fumbled with his watch. “Well—I could 
make the five o’clock if I hurried.” She smiled and 
nodded again. “I’d better take a bag, I suppose.” 

She watched him move to the dresser and pull 
open the drawers, selecting collars, pyjamas, and a 
shirt to toss over at the bed. “Those old night 
shirts—they’re too good to use for cleaning rags. 
Fve got them put by, Dan, in case—:—” 

“Give them to the heathen, mother.” 

“Indeed I won’t.” She shifted her weight back 
and leaned against the dresser. “Say, Dan, I was 
thinking-” 

He dragged a valise from under the bed. “Yes, 
mother ?” 

“Are you going to take one of those taxicabs to 
the station?” 

“I’ll have to if I’m to make that train. Let’s see. 
I’d better telephone the office-” 

She looked at him timidly. “Could I ride to the 





THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


205 


station with you? Fve never had a ride in a taxi¬ 
cab. Then I could take a trolley back to the tube.” 

He looked up from his packing blankly. “You’ve 

never had a ride in—you’ve never-” He gazed 

at her with astonishment and his obedient memory 
began to review her life in a succession of pictures, 
like a disjointed cinema reel. Ironing in a cotton 
dress, darned at the armholes . . . walking, awk¬ 
wardly gaited, to church in her black, turned-over 
dress . . . dusting off the parlor table with its 
dried pampas-grass and the shells from which I 
learned the sound of the sea . . . cooking that day 
she was sobbing and wouldn’t tell me why, her hair 
falling as now in a fringe on her hot neck . . . brib¬ 
ing me with three new pennies to turn the ice-cream 
freezer the time Cousin Carrie’s friends came from 
Orange . . . tender-minded and sad, bent over her 
sewing basket under the oil lamp, white and nodding, 
dreaming of her pillows- 

He leaned over and snapped the nickel fastenings 
into place. “Well now, mother—that’s a good idea,” 
he said. “Get ready and we’ll start.” He heard her 
stumping down the hall to the drawing room- 

“My hat, Dan.” 

He stood staring at the window. Woman’s intui¬ 
tion. Mother knows Amy will like my coming for 
her, eager to draw together the edges of our quar¬ 
rel. I should never have thought of fetching her. 
Yet I could have spared myself those torments by 
the simple action of boarding a train. I’ll court her 




206 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


humbly and kiss her hand like Sydney. Perhaps 
she will love me again as she did our first night here. 
I’ll make our life together as richly patterned as the 
floor of an old Roman church paved with colored 
fragments from pagan temples that knew pagan love 
before the puritans captured it. They have har¬ 
nessed it now in legal yoke, attached admonitory 
weights, and covered all with dull gray canvas for 
the drive to a hard whitewashed church. 

“Danny!” Mrs. Geer stood in the door, antici¬ 
pation brightening her cheeks. “Ain’t you coming? 
What are you mooning in here for when you’ve got 
a train to catch?” 

He leaped toward her, swinging his valise, and 
caught her about the waist. “You’re right, mother. 
Mooning is no good. It’s action that counts, isn’t 
it?” He kissed her and pulled her down the hall. 

As she went along she said in delighted protest. 
“Now, Danny, not so fast, well, Dan, I must say 

_ ft 


XII 


The train was late. At half-past ten it moved 
heavily out of Providence. Daniel sitting back 
among folded newspapers listened to the panting of 
the engine and dried his sweating forehead. The 
unnatural lights above his head emphasized the fa¬ 
tigue that had collected under his eyes and in the 
planes of flesh about his mouth. He replaced his 
handkerchief and stared out of the window. I was 
six when I first watched lights by night from a 
window like this, square and sooty. Romance be¬ 
gan for me on a train, going with father to Mauch 
Chunk on mining business for Uncle Larry. Each 
group of lanterns marked a strange land and I 
thought of Gulliver. Flames from rocks, painted on 
the night. Smoke scented with mystery. And 
clanging sounds that played on my spine. Not 
Persia, not Thibet, could give me that stimulation 
now, for after the twelfth year the world is too 
familiar and imagination withers on a dry stalk. 
That curious sensation, lost before adolescence, of 
being able to leave my body, to hang above it, fright¬ 
ened at its unweighted freedom, without nerve sen¬ 
sation. This usually happened in the sunshine and 


207 


208 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


quiet and would have been pleasant had it not been 
for the fear—the same fear one feels in trying to 
conceive infinity. The sunshine lost its color and 
turned to moonlight. While without weight, I was 
nevertheless fixed to a spot just above my body. I 
always knew when this was about to happen by a 
foreboding and the rush of my inner self to a great 
withdrawal. Sometimes I stopped it by running 
down the lawn but oftener I was as paralysed as a 
man who sees an express train bearing down fifteen 
feet away. I was glad to outgrow this disturbing 
experience and never spoke of it to anyone, having 
learned to hide thoughts and emotions not common 
to all. Astonishment, especially, was frowned upon, 
so that when I saw the ocean for the first time I 
was seized with a trembling embarrassment and 
shrugged my shoulders, guarding delight and awe 
for a moment when I could be alone and free of the 
obligation to look bored at everything new. 

The man across the aisle leaned over and Daniel 
turned with irritation to view puffed cheeks and a 
bristling moustache. “Can I have a look at your 
papers, pal?” 

Daniel hesitated, then gathered them up. “Here 
you are.” 

“Thanks.” He smiled with small sly eyes. “A 
feller tells me a freight wreck is holding us back.” 

Daniel grunted. He closed his eyes, pretending 
to sleep until the train rolled into the smoke of the 
Back Bay station. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


209 


He drove up Commonwealth Avenue at midnight, 
gazing out of the window at neat rows of trees that 
swayed against the stars. They waved their branches 
at Amy's yearly departures for Europe and beckoned 
her home again with stiff, bare fingers, missing the 
bright beauty that waxed with the seasons. My 
blood warms to the trees that saw her youth push¬ 
ing up like themselves from nourishing soil. A 
materialist in love. Bob would rejoice at my trans¬ 
formation into a sentimentalist, the less controlled 
because unstale with habits of romantic thought. 
This is a sedate and proper street, its pavement de¬ 
corously in repair, scornful of modern motor traffic, 
happy to receive occasionally the smart beat of hoofs, 
remembering Atheneum days when caste was ob¬ 
served and the boots of Celtic politicians had not yet 
polluted the drawing rooms of Beacon Hill. We're 
stopping. This must be the house. Now for the 
apparition from a taxi of the unexpected husband 
in seach of forgiveness. 

Mrs. Fiske opened the door, gasping a little as 
she greeted him and giving him her hand in an in¬ 
timate pressure. “It’s nice to see you here, Daniel. I 
thought you might be coming one of these days." 
She smiled at him with bright eyes and whispering, 
“Be gentle," led him into the drawing room. “Amy, 
dear, here’s your husband." 

Amy was lying under a lamp on a wide couch 
between the windows and he went to her quickly. 
“You look ill. Are you sorry to see me? I thought 


210 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


I’d—” He stopped as he became aware of a dark 
figure in the shadows, an harmonious head bent 
forward in solicitude. His face settled into stern 
lines as he kissed her cheek and took a hand colder 
than his own, scented with the frangipani of red 
jasmine. 

‘‘Well, Daniel,” Amy said. Her voice sounded 
choked and apprehensive. 

“I see I should have telegraphed,” he said formally 
and turned to the man standing behind him. “How 
are you, Mr. Harrington?” 

Sydney muttered something and backed away in 
confusion. Daniel watched his retreat before he 
turned to Amy. “Pack tonight. We’re leaving on 
the early train tomorrow,” he said authoritatively. 

There was a silence. Behind him Mrs. Fiske and 
Sydney; before him Amy’s white startled face, her 
encircled eyes dilated and defenseless. She flung up 
one long hand against the green chiffon of her 
dress and drew a trembling breath. “No,” she said. 
“I’m not ready to go back to New York. I—I’m 
not well.” 

“So I see,” replied Daniel. “I’m going to take 
you to a doctor as soon as we get home.” 

“No,” said Amy. “No.” Her strength seemed 
to drain out of her narrow body and she sank down 
and leaned her head forward on her hand, leaving 
him her burning hair to gaze upon with eyes grown 
puzzled in the presence of an estranging mystery. 
He saw Mrs. Fiske’s face float over his shoulder. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


211 


“I want to speak to you, Daniel.” She touched 
his arm and drew him across the room. “Let’s 
go into the library,” she said. He followed her, 
seeing from the corner of his eye Sydney’s swift 
movement to gain Amy’s side. In the hall she 
slipped her arm through his. “It’s hard to live in 
an apartment after all our years in a big house.” 
She sighed and they went into a large, pleasant room 
filled with tables and books. “Sit down and smoke. 
Give me a cigarette, too.” 

They sat down, she in a big chair, he in a smaller 
one that faced her. “I wonder you haven’t guessed 
it for yourself,” she began after he had held a match 
for her. “But of course men are very stupid.” 
She threw back her head and studied his anxious 
face, smiling a thin nervous smile that was faintly 
a reminder of Amy’s. “Don’t look so serious, 

Daniel. Nothing is so natural as-as—birth.” 

He stared at her, alarmed out of the self-conscious¬ 
ness that had always attended him in her presence. 
She nodded at him, still smiling. “You don’t look 
pleased, Daniel,” she added. “That’s too bad of 
you.” 

He stammered, “It’s—it’s impossible.” 

“Not at all, dear boy. Why should it be impos¬ 
sible?” 

“But so soon! I had no idea—good God!” 

She smiled again and lifted her shoulders slightly. 
“You must be gentle with her, Daniel. Humor her 
moods and spoil her a great deal.” 



212 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He nodded and gazed down at his feet with a 
stupid expression. Between the toes of his boots 
lay the burned match. He picked it up and twirled 
it between finger and thumb. There was a long 
silence. Mrs. Fiske went on smoking, her alert eyes 
on his face. Presently she arose, patted his shoulder 
and left the room. 

Relaxing, he leaned back, dazed and limp in his 
chair. What a damned mess! A cataclysm for me. 
Nature’s trap has closed. So I must be gentle and 
pretend joy for her sake. I didn’t dream this would 
happen for years. How long has ,she known? 
Guarding her illness in fear of my resentment. My 
life will be hell from now henceforth. Restraints and 
doctors, alarms and evening walks, until the cata¬ 
menial days come again. 

A door closed somewhere and he lifted himself, 
frowning, from the chair. He was still holding the 
flaking match in his fingers. He dropped it into an 
ashtray. At the door he stopped before a mirror 
and examined his austere face and pale eyes, lean¬ 
ing forward to blink at his reflection and to screw 
up his mouth into a smile. I must look happy. 
Happy parenthood. Happy young father. Happy 
for Amy’s sake. Stop grousing. Compose crawl¬ 
ing nerves. Thousands of conceptions every day. 
The reproduction of Daniel Geer is as unnotable as 
that of a coolie in swarming China. Paternity plays 
a negligible part. Different for her. Maternity all- 
important, for it changes mind and body—often not 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


213 


for the better. Amy resents it now but later nature 
will inspire love for the child. Curious, motherhood 
is called the strongest instinct yet must always be 
forced on woman. Why is there that other instinct 
to escape? Why does she not eagerly seek her 
destiny ? 

He lighted a cigarette and again fixed a smile on 
his face before returning to the drawing room. Amy 
still lay on the couch. Her mother sat in a chair 
beside her. Sydney had gone. Daniel’s eyes, mel¬ 
ancholy and alarmed above his set smile, felt for 
Amy’s face. For a moment he stood by the couch 
without speaking, tightening his artificial smirk and 
gazing down into her haggard eyes. 

“Your mother told me,” he began in a thin voice, 
“and I—I—” Damn it, that’s not the way to tell 
her I’m happy. Give her some drama. Something 
she can remember. Sydney would know how. He’d 
play up. 

Glancing at Mrs. Fiske’s cool face, he dropped to 
his knees and seized Amy’s hands. Kissing them, 
he exclaimed, “Poor little girl! Why were you 
afraid to tell me?” Not very good. This being a 
hypocrite comes hard. 

Her hands rested in his, cold and weak. As she 
looked at him a flush crept up painfully from the 
thin skin of her neck. “Daniel,” she said. His 
name caught in her throat and she paused. 

As he looked into her eyes, soft and moist with 
tears, his own melted and his anger flowed away 


214 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


from him. He bent over and kissed her glabrous 
upper lip where fine beads of perspiration were 
shining. “Amy, I’m a selfish beast!” he cried. 
“Ever since your mother told me Fve been thinking 
only of myself and how this would separate us. 
And worse—when I came in my first thought was 
that you had been encouraging that man Harrington. 
Oh, forgive me!” 

She lifted her head and he saw fresh tears rush 
into her eyes. “No, Daniel, I’m the beast!” she 
burst forth. “And I’m going to tell you everything 
_>> 

“Amy!” Mrs. Fiske jumped from her chair, push¬ 
ing him aside, and shook her daughter’s shoulder. 
“Don’t be hysterical,” she said in a hard angry 
voice. “Go to bed.” She turned an agitated face 
to him. “Don’t let her talk any more tonight, Daniel. 
She’ll be ill tomorrow.” 

Amy threw out her hand toward her mother in 
protest. Her eyes were bewildered through her 
tears. Her poise was gone, brushed off by the ad¬ 
venture of her body, and she was receptive to 
the wills of her mother and her husband. The 
muscles of her face contracted, moving with an even 
wave-like motion under the skin. With a bound 
she turned to the wall and began to sob in long- 
drawn choking cries of desolation. 

Blocking his forward movement with her arm, 
Mrs. Fiske clutched his sleeve and pulled it. “No. 
Let her alone. I’ll quiet her. Come. I’ll show 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


215 


you where you’re to sleep. Do you want to catch 
that early train in the morning? I’ll have you called 
at seven.” 

With face turned to wood he resisted her with 
expressionless eyes. “I want to know what 
Amy was going to tell me when you stopped 
her,” he said. “I don’t like mysteries.” He 
bent toward the rumpled green figure on the 
couch. “Amy!” 

Amy checked a sob. “Go away!” she wailed. 
“Go away!” 

Mrs. Fiske pulled his arm again. “My dear boy, 
there isn’t any mystery. She’s ill and hysterical. To¬ 
morrow she will have forgotten all this. I know 
her better than you, Daniel.” He followed her un¬ 
willingly from the room, his knees bending with 
difficulty, and down the hall. She opened a door. “I 
hope you’ll be comfortable. The bath is across the 
hall. I’ll take Amy in with me tonight.” She held 
out her hand and he took it slowly. 

“You’ll call me if she wants anything?” 

“Of course. Goodnight.” 

Puzzled, he looked down at her with pain-filled 
eyes and found her alien and pitiless. He drew a 
deep necessary breath. “Goodnight.” He closed the 
door with a ligneous gesture and went into the nar¬ 
row room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lis¬ 
tened for Amy’s voice and stared steadily up at an 
old photograph that was hanging on the wall, 
taken when her hemal-colored hair had fallen 


216 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


to her waist in thick shining braids. One by 
one the night noises faded away and the only 
sounds in his straining ears were the sighs of his 
own breathing. 


XIII 


One hot afternoon of the first week in August 
Daniel left himself into the apartment and went to 
the door of Amy’s room. She was sitting before 
her dressing table putting up her hair. When she 
heard his step she turned, arms uplifted. 

“Why, Daniel! Is anything wrong?” 

He came and stood close to her. His nostrils 
dilated to drink the warm scent that rose from her 
hair but his lips were set in a tight line. “I have a 
bad headache. I’ve knocked off for the afternoon. 
After dinner I’ll go back. Had your luncheon?” 

“And hour ago. Well—” She paused reflect¬ 
ively and passed her fingers in and out of her long 
hair. “Why don’t you lie down in your room and 
sleep? I’ll call you in time for dinner.” Her hands 
relaxed and their load of red hair slipped and fell 
down on her shoulders. 

Searching her face, he asked, “Were you going 
out? Don’t let me interfere with your plans.” 

She lifted her arms again and gazed into the 
glass, coiling and twisting her hair until her head 
took on its familiar contour. “No, I’m not going 
out.” 

Her yellow tea gown lay on the lace covers of the 
217 


218 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


bed. He glanced at it. “Someone coming in?” He 
turned and stared at the smooth warm face in the 
glass, noting the expression of studied indifference 
that had entered her eyes. She met his gaze there 
in the mirror and her eyelids fell. She began to 
gather up more hairpins and thrust them into the 
ovoid knot of hair just above the nape of her 
neck. 

“Perhaps Elizabeth—I don’t know. It’s too hot 
to expect anyone.” 

“Yes. Only a lover would make a call on a day like 
this.” 

She did not answer or look at him as he sat down. 
Her fingers, suddenly nervous, jabbed in the last 
hairpin. Rising, she stood before him in a thin rose 
chemise while she patted powder on her neck and 
arms from a large, glass bowl. His eyes passed 
from the fire of her hair to the milk-white flesh of 
her throat, making its sweeping curve outward 
and then abruptly turning in above the waistline. 
From there his gaze dropped, grew sustained, sharp, 
concerned. “Amy!” At his tone she sent him an 
involuntary glance of inquiry. 

“Yes?” 

“I had no idea—” He made a blind gesture 
toward her body. “I hadn’t noticed before—it’s 
quite distinct, isn’t it?” 

A red wave passed over her neck and face. She 
caught up her kimono and turned her back. “I’m 
sorry. Does it offend you?” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


219 


His tone sharpened. “You know it’s not that. 
But it seems to me—a little abnormal.” He stared 
at her back, leaning forward in his chair. “I 
remember when Ruth had her first—no one would 
have known till the end of the winter.” 

“Perhaps she wasn’t as thin as I.” Her voice 
came as from a distance, weak and soft. Turning, 
she went to the bed. Her flush had faded, leaving 
her white and tired. She lifted her dress, spread it 
out and slipped it over her head. 

“How long have we been married, Amy? Four 
months ?” 

“Yes. I suppose I’m one of those unfortunate 
women that can’t conceal it. You know, it differs 
greatly among women.” 

He nodded. “Yes. It seems to me I’ve heard 

_ jj 

While she fastened her belt he stared out of the 
window with brows drawn over brooding eyes. 
Presently she came to him and put her hand on his 
shoulder. “I’m sorry your head aches. You’d bet¬ 
ter lie down.” He continued to look away from her. 
She laid her palm on his temple. Unconsciously he 
pressed his head forward against it. At this sign 
relief trembled in the curling corners of her mouth. 
She tightened her hand. 

With a sudden movement she threw herself down 
on his knees and kissed him. His lips were cold and 
dry. They tightened inward from her pressure. 
Drawing away, she looked into his empty gaze until 


220 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


his eyes came to a focus on hers. For the first time 
he showed no pleasure in her beauty. His look, filled 
with pain, accused her. Seeing, she bent down 
quickly and fastened the curve of her mouth to the 
pale arid line of his lips, pressing against it until a 
quiver shot through his muscles to betray his resolu¬ 
tion. She relaxed, then, and accepted a hail of 
kisses, her half-closed eyes secret and reassured. 
His kisses fell downward along the satin surface of 
her neck. 

“I love you—why do you torture me—I mustn’t 
doubt you-” 

She raised her arm cautiously back of his head 
and glanced at her wristwatch. “Do lie down, 
Daniel, and sleep.” 

“If you will stay with me,” he answered in a 
choked drunken voice. He buried his face in the 
warmth of her breast and breathed the perfumed 
flesh into his blood. The moisture of her skin 
burned his mouth. He mumbled into the softness, 
‘ ‘Amy—Amy-” 

Her eyes were triumphant above his head. “Yes. 
Until you fall asleep.” She paused through his 
tightened embrace. “Daniel—there are some things 
I must get tomorrow. Will you give me a check 
before you go?” 

He nodded and rose up from his chair, lifting her 
up high in his arms. “Come lie by me Amy, while 
I sleep.” 




XIV 


When he awoke she had gone. He turned on his 
side and saw the hollow her head had pressed into 
the pillow. He put out his hand and stroked the 
linen. She’d leave me if she knew what I’ve been 
thinking. I have a cheap imagination, set in motion 
by jealousy. The arc of her body. The arc of the 
marriage covenant. A sign and a promise that she’s 
mine. Carrying, they call it. Some women carry 
high, some carry low. Perhaps a matter of tem¬ 
perament. He has a life of his own already. Didn’t 
realize it until I saw him inflating her, making his 
place, feeding on her blood. Mona Lisa’s son and 
my link to immortality. He’ll arrive some day be¬ 
tween editions and I’ll have a duty toward him. 
Education. If a girl, Amy’s duty. He shall have 
Greek and Latin for his mind, French and Spanish 
for his tongue. Give him science at school that he 
may not be a sciolist like me, and send him to 
Europe for art. He shall read Anatole France, the 
Bible, Turgenieff, Thomas Hardy, St. Augustine, 
Walter Pater, George Moore, Henry Adams—the 
only American aesthete—of course the ancients. 
I’ll make him a list of my old delights. I’ll tell him 
life has only a few high points except for books. 
I’ve had Amy, the war and—that’s all. My boy 


221 


222 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


may be the last, for immense emotional deserts lie 
between those rare peaks. 

He sat up. “Amy!” He jumped from bed and 
went into the hall. “Amy!” He came back, caught 
up his coat and trousers from a chair and took them 
into his room. In his bathrobe he made a tour of 
the apartment. Passing at last into the kitchen, he 
remembered it was Thursday and the maid would 
not be in until dinner time. The nickel clock on the 
shelf was ticking insolently. Half-past four. I 
must have slept nearly two hours. The last thing I 
remember her green eyes were penetrating me- 

The bell over the door trilled and at the violent 
sound he scowled up at the bit of dirty metal. 
Damn! IT1 have to go. Perhaps she forgot her 
key, that high-minded Mary, handing me prim looks 
with the grapefruit. Or it might be Amy. 

He hurried to the door. A messenger boy stood 
there, holding out a long, white box. Daniel signed 
his name and carried the box into his room. Won¬ 
der who sent this? Better open and put in water. 
Penknife for string. Must remember to bring 
flowers sometimes. She always likes them about. 
Buys them by the wholesale. These smell like a 
death—or Easter. 

He lifted an armful of lilies from the box. A small 
envelope slipped to the floor. He picked it up and 
saw it was unsealed. With a hesitant finger he raised 
the flap and drew out a card. Mr. Sidney Harring¬ 
ton. Underneath in fine writing, “lls sont comme 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


223 


tes belles mains.” Staring at the words, his face 
filled with blood. He dropped the card to the floor 
and ground it with his heel into the Mexican rug. 

The sheaf of lillies was lying in the curve of his 
arm. He filled his fists with stiff, waxen heads and 
mauled them into sticky shapelessness. Dropping 
them to the rug, he stood over them, watching their 
scattered, wet petals, gray now from the crushing. 

All at once he threw up his head and strode into 
the hall with trembling knees to stand before her 
door, his face bloodless and twitching, his eyes fas¬ 
tened on her desk in a corner. He went to it in long 
strides and shook the cover. It resisted and the 
placid shining wood reflected his rage back into his 
eyes. He ran to the kitchen and brought back a 
hammer. The thin wood splintered about the lock. 

Letters filled the pigeon holes and drawers. He 
pulled them from their envelopes, glanced at saluta¬ 
tion and signature and threw them on the floor. 
Helen, Marian, Florence, writing from Boston. 
One from her mother—he read a page at random 
. . . “Make the best of what you have, dear child. 
Avoid arousing his temper and remember he is not 
modern. Time cures everything and you will for¬ 
get the other. Above all, do not make a scandal. 
It would do no good for Edith will never give him 
a divorce. I met Mrs. Bowles yesterday and she is 
sailing next month. . . .” He flipped out a small 
drawer. An envelope lay there addressed to Amy in 
the writing of the card. He opened it. Empty. 


224 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


The outer door closed. He threw the envelope 
from him with a savage gesture and ran into the hall. 
"Amy !” 

"Yes, Daniel.” She came toward him uncon¬ 
cerned, a floating silk cape over her yellow dress. 
"Are you awake? How is your headache?” 

He confronted her, both hands gripping the cord 
of his bathrobe. "Where have you been?” 

"I—I—had an errand—” She stopped, seeing 
his eyes. "What’s the matter?” 

"Were you telephoning?” She stared at him puz¬ 
zled, frightened, defiant. With outthrust chin he 
strode to her and closed his fingers on her wrist. 
"You went out to telephone—him—not to come be¬ 
cause I am here—didn’t you?” He shook her arm 
and felt it grow limp. She drooped and the muscles 
of her face sagged. She closed her eyes and swayed. 
"Here!” He jerked her along to the door of his 
room and pointed to the lilies that strewed the rug. 
"Like your hands, he wrote—the bastard—” He 
crushed her wrist and gloated over her cry of pain. 

"Daniel! You’re acting like a lunatic.” Blood 
flowed into her face, brought by the pain in her arm. 
"What harm is there in flowers?” 

He ignored this, standing against her, sneering 
into her eyes, pulling her to him until her face lay 
below his. "You’re cold to me but I bet you warm 
up when he comes around! And all the time you’re 
living on my money!” His voice became strident, 
filling the corridor. His words beat against the 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


225 


walls. “By God, I’ll teach you—damn you!” He 
raised an arm over her head and lifted his convulsed, 
flaming face. She wilted before him, anticipating 
a blow. Her thin eyelids fluttered and her mouth 
opened and grew pale before his threatening posture. 

She whispered, “Daniel, don’t!” Her mouth 
twisted, her eyes swelled with tears. 

His arm unstiffened and fell. Tremors shook him 
and his hands, denied their desire, twitched at his 
sides. The muscles of his face moved in tortured 
little jumps. 

She stepped back. “Daniel, I haven’t-” 

“Don’t lie!” His hand leaped out at her arm. 
“That’s what you were going to confess that night 
in Boston!” 

“No—it wasn’t-” 

Holding her arm, he gave a harsh laugh. “It’s 
funny—when I think how I used to suffer—my in¬ 
feriority—afraid of your pretences—your little deli¬ 
cacies. I’ve even been ashamed to let you see my 
family.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “Now 
I know what your blue blood amounts to—it only 
makes it easier for you to be a God damned-!” 

The epithet he chose was a soft spitting word 
that, spoken tenderly, its meaning unknown, has the 
yearning intense sound of a Russian love word. 
Bending forward, he spit it into her face with the 
unseasoned vulgarity which the provincial male feels 
for the female. Then, the ardor of his rage spent, 
he released her arm and stood back. 





226 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Freed from his menace, she passed into complete 
aloofness. A cold scorn gathered in her eyes, 
deepening their color to a slate gray and dilating 
the large pupils. The lines of her face patterned 
themselves into a white severity. “I might have 
known you were a beast,” she said. “The signs 
were plain enough.” 

His eyes slowly left her face. He bent his head 
and saw his bathrobe opened over wrinkled under¬ 
wear. The shirt, unbuttoned over his chest, revealed 
a mat of light curling hairs. He lifted trembling 
hands and pulled his bathrobe together. His face 
was as pale as hers and his lips still turned back in 
an exaggerated sneer. Fumbling with a button, he 
muttered, “I’ve only told you the truth.” 

“How can you know the truth?” She spoke in 
an even metallic voice that further confused him. 
“Your middle class standards are new to me. 
Among the people I’ve known a woman doesn’t lose 
her friends /because she marries. And husbands 
don’t use vile words because an old friend has the 
courtesy to send flowers.” 

“You’re in love with him! You needn’t put on 
airs and talk about your class because I’ve found 
out!” He bent forward and caught her arm again, 
digging his fingers into the trembling tendons. “I 
smashed open your desk and read a letter from your 
mother!” 

Her arm grew rigid, then limp. She flushed, 
turned white. Her head dropped forward and she 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 227 

slipped to the floor, her black silk cape lying under 
her like a shield. 

He looked at the curve of her body and remem¬ 
bered. “God!” he said. He went to the bathroom 
with uneven steps and drew water in a glass. Kneel¬ 
ing by her, he sprinkled it over her face. She 
stirred. Her eyelids flickered, opened, closed. He 
took her hand between his palms and rubbed it, his 
eyes on the slender satin fingers and long nails, 
stained with pink. 

She began to moan. “Sydney!” Her body 
twisted and she threw out her hands. 

He jumped to his feet. “Sydney, eh?” He flung 
down the glass. It smashed and scattered. “You 
want your pretty Sydney, do you? Well, I’ll fix 
that!” 

He ran down the hall to the telephone table and 
opened the directory. “H—Har—Harri—” He 
lifted the receiver and gave the number. “Hello. 
Mr. Harrington, please. Tell him Mrs. Geer would 
like to speak to him.” He panted through the pause. 
“Mr. Harrington? This is Daniel Geer. In the 
future I want you to keep away from my wife. Do 
you get that? If I ever catch you speaking to her 
again, I’ll knock your head off.” 

He slammed the receiver down and strode to his 
room. In five minutes he was dressed. Without 
looking at Amy, sitting crumpled on the floor 
against the wall, he passed by her and out of the 
door. 


XV 


Miss Elliot came in without the day’s letters. 
“I’m sorry they’re not finished,” she said. “Mr. 
Bird wanted me to copy that Mexican feature stuff. 
That woman always sends it in longhand.” 

Daniel glanced up at her with bloodshot roaming 
eyes. “What’s that?” While she repeated, he 
looked out of the window with contracting face. 

“Have you still got that headache, Mr. Geer?” 
She made a little clucking sound. “Tch! Tch!” 
Her blunt fingers nervously poked a pencil under the 
elastic of her notebook. He turned and their motion 
drew his eyes. He gazed at the flat nails and prom¬ 
inent knuckles. With an abrupt gesture he reached 
across the side of the desk and took her hand. 

“Honest and straightforward, aren’t you? Cross 
sometimes, but you do your work and don’t ask 
favors of anybody. The man you marry will always 
know where he stands.” 

She left her hand in his. “Why, Mr. Geer!” 
She caught her breath and tears rushed into her eyes. 

He went on. “I suppose I oughtn’t to call you 
cross considering my own office manners.” He 
examined her face for the first time in months, 
remembering her fresh olive skin and the gold glints 
228 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 229 

in her eyes. Her mouth relaxed and trembled in 
childish lines. 

“A big executive like you has a right to be cross,” 
she said. “Especially with some of the people you’ve 
got in this office.” 

Daniel nodded up at her, conscious he still was 
holding her hand in his, fearing to lose her warming 
sympathy by relaxing his fingers. “You mean 
Trainer. Never mind him. He’s valuable to me.” 
His eyes ran over her, approving her fresh white 
waist with its boyish collar and protective paper 
cuffs. “Thanks for your defence, Miss Elliot. Run 
along now and get out my letters. See that one to 
Chicago goes registered.” 

“Yes, Mr. Geer.” She looked down at him in 
gentle understanding and withdrew her warm, brown 
hand, smiling slowly. 

She went away and he turned again to the win¬ 
dow, staring across the court into a line of busy 
bright offices. Elliot knows something is wrong. 
Her intuition can sense my suffering even though 
I’ve done with useless rages now. Jealousy a 
poisoned arrow in my heart. A ridiculous undigni¬ 
fied emotion, despised by my intelligence. The 
lowest form of abasement. A jaundiced condition 
that prevents reason from operating and puts a man 
on a plane with a Barbary pigeon. In Africa they 
use needle and thread to prevent being cuckolded 
Unhealthy but efficient. You can’t undo stitches 
with a Crusader’s duplicate key. Only persons con- 


230 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


scious of their inferiority are supposed to feel jeal¬ 
ousy. Not true. Take Sydney. Enamelled with 
culture but never had an original idea in his life. 
A handsome peacock with good taste and a retentive 
memory for Latin. If he comes there again I’ll 
kick him through the door. He won’t dare. That 
kind of man always a coward. I’m a coward, too, 
for not being able to leave her. If I did she’d go to 

him—I’d never see her again- 

He pounded his fist on the desk and his eyes grew 
blind with tears. He got up, blinking, and went to 
close the door to the city room. Stop thinking about 
it. Do the night’s work. Forget my life is given 
to a cheat—a beautiful leech, living on my money 
and another man’s love. Instincts of a prostitute. 
Gives herself, asks for something in the same breath. 
She’ll get no more checks from me. That old Ger¬ 
man print of outspread limbs, fleshy as Rubens 
made them, gold falling accurately from above. 
Zeus wooing Danse with a shower of gold. Hence¬ 
forth I shall see my marriage like a diorama, colored 
and spectacular, on which I shall gaze with stony 
eyes, a husband emeritus, retired not from age but 
from lack of complacency. Loving him, why did 
she marry me? I’ll ask her for the truth—if one 
may ask that of a woman. Perhaps she’ll answer, 
“Woman’s only weapon against man is a lie—her 
subtle revenge for enslavements, cruelties and insults. 
She wards off his advance with a lie—or with a lie 
captures him for her own uses. He preys—she 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


231 


lies.” Women prey, too, I’ll point out, and profit 
by our lust for them. We prey more successfully 
because we have more strength and opportunities. 
I bet women would enjoy a bloody sword and an 
ironic gesture of chivalry, too, if they ever got a 
chance at it. The Turks are the only race with the 
right idea. They say frankly, “Women, look out! 
Veil your faces so we won’t be tempted to rape. 
Too bad men are so lustful that your lives must be 
spent in a rug-padded prison guarded by the whips 
of eunuchs. But your master and your children will 
be enough for you. You will be happier without a 
mental life. Few men have one anyway.” By God, 
for the first time in my life I’d like to be a Turk! 

The bell under his desk jangled and he turned to 
the telephone. “Hello.” 

“This is Mary.” 

“Mary? What Mary?” 

“Mary at your apartment.” 

“Oh.” He paused, gripping the telephone tightly. 
“What is it, Mary?” His hands began to tremble. 
He set the cloth-covered base down on the desk. 

“It’s about Mrs. Geer. I thought you’d want to 
know-” 

“Yes. Know what?” 

“When I came back today she was—well, she’s 
gone away, sir.” 

“How do you know ?’ 

“She packed her things. All her clothes and 
books.” 



232 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He bent over and caught his breath. He pressed 
his hand to the pit of his stomach. “Oh. Thanks 
Mary.” 

“Shall I lay out your supper as usual, Mr. Geer?” 

“No. Yes. I don’t—Mary! Was she—did she 
go away alone ?” 

“No, sir. Miss Corning came for her in a taxi.” 

“Oh.” He closed his eyes and leaned his fore¬ 
head on the cold metal of the telephone. Someone 
was knocking at the door. He hung up the receiver. 
Gone. She’ll never come back. She’ll go to him. 
If she does, I’ll kill her—kill them both—kill myself. 
Amy, my beautiful Amy—never to kiss you again! 

He bent his head over the desk. Sobs rose in his 
throat. The knocking began again. The door 
opened and closed. Someone walked up to the back 
of his chair. 

“You forgot to give me the enclosure for that 
Chicago letter. I have to copy it.” 

He tried to reply. His voice choked him. 

“Oh!” Miss Elliot’s note book dropped to the 
floor. “What’s the matter, Mr. Geer? Are you 
sick?” 

He shook his head and a tear flattened on the 
polished wood of his desk. He put his hand over 
his face and made her a humiliated gesture of dis¬ 
missal. 

She ignored it, coming close to him as he sat 
bowed over in his chair and putting both arms about 
his shoulders. He found himself sobbing into the 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


233 

folds of her white waist. “Poor Mr. Geer/’ she 
whispered, “Poor Mr. Geer.” 

He threw an arm about her waist as she stood 
there and pressed it through a great surging of his 
pain. Her body relaxed. Her heart beat in quick 
thuds against his eyes. He smelled roses and faint 
lavender. All at once she stiffened and drew away. 

“Someone at the door,” she said. 

He released her mechanically without looking up. 
He heard her walk across the concrete floor and 
open the door. 

“You can’t see him now,” she said. “He’s very 
busy. Give those to Mr. Trainer. He’s to take care 
of them tonight. I’ll go tell him.” 

The door closed. He was alone. He felt for his 
handkerchief. What a fool I made of myself! 
Feeling better, though. But into another mess. 
Good God! That girl loves me. So much the worse 
for her. Love is a vis a tergo, like death, corroding, 
pushing and torturing its victims. Begins by titil¬ 
lating the emotions and ends in a tabid disease of the 
heart. Its pleasures are brief and unclean. Disgust 
follows. Desire renews itself. The ancient cycle 
recommences. Death, renascence and suffering 
without end. Love! Amy floats through my being, 
clinging and haunting, as sad as Debussy’s clouds, 
her hair shining in my eyes like coins in sunlight. 
She is my rapture, my delirium, my aberration of 
will. My reason must end this before it becomes too 
atrophied for action. 


234 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He replaced his handkerchief, smoothed down his 
hair and lighted a cigarette. Sydney will probably be 
afraid to see her. She will resent his unheroic be¬ 
havior, her romance fading as she sees her own 
unromantic figure in the glass. She’ll come back 
without coaxing. I’ll write to her mother for sub 
rosa assistance. In the meantime, to work—before 
I turn into a weakling like the tea-taster. 

He pulled over the telephone and asked for Train¬ 
er’s desk. “Bring in that layout, please. I’m 
waiting.” 


XVI 


The sultry afternoon advanced. August heat 
pressed in painfully through open windows. 
Daniel sat at his desk, smoking and examining 
proofs, sensible of the choking air, the droning 
voices in the city room and typewriters in angry, 
staccato conversation. Across the court two steno¬ 
graphers stood at a window with paper fans, leaning 
out and sighing. 

Someone came in the door behind him and he 
drove a cloud from his brain. God, for a private 
beach at Tahiti! “What is it now?” He spoke 
viciously from set teeth and then turned his head. 
“Sorry, Tobey. Thought it was an office boy. I 
see you got them out early this week.” 

Tobey chose an envelope from his elastic-bound 
package and put it in Daniel’s hand. “I’d like to 
change checks with you, Mr. Geer.” He lifted a 
grimy hand on which shone a gold ring marked with 
an elaborate T and pushed back his unhealthy hair. 

Daniel grunted. “You’ll have to change your 
character first. Look at your fingers—yellow with 
nicotine. When I was your age—” He examined 
with severe eyes the lad’s mouldy skin and soiled 
frayed collar. “Well, get on. Disperse joy in the 
city room. They’re all waiting for you,” 


235 


236 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

Tobey snapped his elastic band. “Great row on 
downstairs. Haines is on his ear. He’s outside 
now, waiting to get in at Mr. Bird.” 

Unscrewing the top of his fountain pen, Daniel 
remarked, “Not interested, Tobey.” 

The boy shuffled out. Daniel wrote his name 
on the back of his check and addressed an envelope 
to his bank. He sealed it and put it in his pocket. 
Then he picked up a proof and began reading it with 
leaden eyes. Presently he struck out a word and 
wrote another in the margin. What an abominable 
use of the human intelligence! It was probably an 
extrinsic editorial like this that caused them to throw 
those Utamaros into the sea. Tea into Boston Har¬ 
bor. Erotics into the New York bay. To hell with 
tea. But they went to war over dried leaves and only 
a few beauty lovers mourned those delicate prints. 
Why doesn’t an invisible hooded band get after the 
vice commissions? I’d write “Kill” on this if 
Horace were away. 

A fly made the circle of his head and descended 
softly upon his hand. He struck at it and it rose 
to the ceiling, buzzing its anger. A light dust lay 
on his desk like a veil. Voices passed his door. 
“Naw, she wouldn’t dare.” “You’re darned right, 
she wouldn’t.” The fly swooped down, avoided the 
edge of his collar and bit his neck. He swore and 
clapped his hand to the stinging flesh, turning to 
watch the insect in flight. What a hell of a mood 
to be in! I’d like to take off collar and shoes, drink 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


237 

beer and spit on the floor. Back to Grandfather 
Geer’s store in Tarrytown. 

He wiped his face dry and waved his elbows to 
coax air between shirt and skin. He felt he had 
grown thin since morning. He took up his yellow 
pencil again. 

At half-past six Miss Elliot came in, walking 
rather sentimentally on new high heels. She wore 
a blouse of blue chiffon with a row of yellow bead 
trimming about the neck. 

“Hello,”’ he said. “How are you standing the 
heat? I don’t half mind it.” 

“Well, I like winter better,” she said and laid a 
sheaf of letters on the desk. 

“I don’t.” He looked at her and his eyes were 
caught by the blue of her waist. “How did you 
manage that? Been home?” 

She smiled down with shy, hazel eyes. “No. I 
changed it upstairs.” 

“Very pretty. But I like your others better. 
Those white ones you always wear.” 

Her smile died away. “Oh, do you?” 

“Yes. They’re more like you. Going to a 
party?” 

“No.” She flushed and tightened her fingers on 
the edge of the desk. “This is cooler.” 

He watched the blood flowing under her dark 
skin. She’s lying. She went to that trouble for 
vanity. Poor kid. Probably a dull life. A sweet 
shamed expression. She’s afraid I’ve guessed. 


238 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. 
“I don’t know anything about you,” he said. “But 
I’d like to if you don’t mind. Were you born in 
New York?” 

“I’m from Elmira. You’ve heard of Elmira?” 
He nodded and she went on with excited eyes. “My 
sister got married two years ago. He’s a singing 
teacher here. She sent for me to come and live with 
them. I help her—especially with the baby.” 

A painful thrill passed through him. “A baby, 
eh ? And you like it ?” 

“Oh, yes. She’s a lovely baby. And my sister is 
so in love with Harry—you can’t see them apart 
when he’s home. And he is with her—the same 
thing.” She sighed, gazing down on her stubby 
fingers. 

Daniel watched her face. God, what a life! The 
air about her palpitating with love. Probably hears 
their kisses at night in her room. She thinks of 
nothing else. I’ll find out. 

“Don’t you want to get married?” 

She lifted heavy eyelids, startled, alert to push 
this back to him before any part of it could become 
hers. “Oh, no, I don’t!” 

“Why not?” I shouldn’t torture her. Why do I? 

“Because—oh—” She twisted her shoulders 
from side to side and he saw the chiffon over her 
heart quicken in its perpetual trembling. 

“Haven’t you ever thought of it?” 

“Not lately. Once at home I was engaged to a 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


239 


nice fellow. He was really awfully interesting. 
Only he wouldn’t work. He carved things out of 
little pieces of wood. You know—like animals and 
things. When he couldn’t sell them he used to cry. 
I couldn’t marry a man like that, could I?” 

“What kind of man do you like?” 

“Oh, a strong-minded one, I guess. I like to see 
a man take charge of things and order everybody 
around. I’m foolish, I guess.” She stopped and 
blushed again, the color staining her skin from neck 
to forehead. “I’m bothering you, Mr. Geer. I’d 
better go on home now.” 

“No, don’t go. I like to hear what you think 
about things.” That fellow must have been like 
Sydney. Wouldn’t work. Too artistic for a job. 
Cried. I bet Sydney cries, too, the dirty- 

“Mr. Trainer will be coming in.” 

“Miss Elliot!” He unfolded his arms and bent 
toward her blouse. “I tell you what. Have dinner 
with me tonight. We can talk better outside. Will 
you ?” Why not take her ? I like to see her squirm. 

“Oh—why, yes, I’d like to, Mr. Geer.” She 
opened wide happy eyes on him. 

“Fine. Go get your hat. I’ll wash up right 
away.” 

She went to the door on her high heels, and called 
back, “Here’s a messenger with a letter.” She 
brought it to the desk. “I’ll wait down at the door 
—shall I?” 

Studying the unknown feminine writing on the 



240 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


envelope, Daniel answered absently, “Perhaps that 
would be better.” 

The letter began with “My dear Mr. Geer.” He 
turned to the signature—Elizabeth Coming’s. What 
can she want with me? It must be Amy. She’s 
writing for Amy. Blood rushed to his head and he 
felt his limbs grow weak. A faintness seized him 
and his head began to throb like a heart. With 
shaking hands he turned again to the salutation. 

“My dear Mr. Geer —I have been trying to de¬ 
cide since noon whether to write to you. I know 
well that your differences with Amy are no affair of 
mine. Today is her birthday and she has been very 
sad. I am unable to give her any cheer, although 
I have done my best. Do come up to see her—with 
appropriate flowers—and carry her off to dinner. 
Pay no heed to a refusal but pick her up and take 
her away with you. Forgive me for meddling. 
Sincerely yours, Elizabeth Corning.” 

“356 East 58th Street. 

He bounded from the chair and stood by the win¬ 
dow, the letter crushed between his fingers. She 
isn’t sad on my account. The effect of Sydney’s 
departure for Europe. Serves her damned right to 
be alone on her birthday. Let her stay alone. I 
won’t go near her. If she wants to see me she can 
send me a letter written by her own aristocratic 
hand. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


241 


He straightened his necktie and crossed the room 
to lift his hat from its nail. She deserves to be 
sad on her birthday. She can dissolve in her tears 
for all I care. She had no pity for me when I was 
put through my emotional paces. Fm going out to 
dinner with a girl who loves me and doesn’t want 
my money. 

Thrusting aside a boy who was entering with a 
bundle of evening editions, he hurried through the 
door and across the unventilated city room. The 
odors of perspiration, stale smoke from pipes and 
cigarettes, glue and damp ink met in his nostrils. 
Christ! Why don’t they put in shower baths! And 
wear chiffon. I’ll dry no tears tonight. I’d rather 
watch Elliot quiver at every word, repressions eat¬ 
ing her like flames. Never knew the birthday 
month. Appropriate flowers, Corning said. Lilies, 
I suppose, for her belles mains. 

He passed the elevators and went down the stairs 
with rapid steps. Can’t stand being bobbed up and 
down in a lazy elevator. My head turning. Get out 
in the air. Meet a woman who really loves me. 
The other can go to hell. 

Miss Elliot was standing outside the entrance 
doors, her head bent, her hands folded. A leather 
handbag swung from her arm, caught in the bend 
of her elbow. Her blue waist made a patch of color 
against the gray background of the street. Daniel 
went to her side, removing his hat and beating a 
tattoo on it while he spoke. 


242 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Er—that letter— It was from my wife. She’s 
sick and wants me to come right away. I’m sorry 
—some other time—” He saw her eyes spring 
away from his before he turned to the curb and 
whistled. A taxi stopped with a grinding of brakes. 
He jerked at the door. “Go to 356 East 58th Street 
And stop at a florist’s.” 


XVII 


Miss Corning received him in her small stiff 
6 itting-room, amusement and sympathy in her keen 
eyes. Her manner was business-like. ‘Til send her 
in. She’s lying down and saying she doesn’t want 
any dinner.” 

“Thank you.” He put down his hat and box of 
flowers. “You’ve been very kind. I’m grateful.” 

“Oh, I didn’t do it for you,” said Miss Corning 
cheerfully. “I want Amy to get her life settled. 
Either be married or—get a divorce.” 

“Divorce!” Daniel stared into her small, sharp 
face. “She wants a divorce?” He stuffed his hands 
into the pockets of his overcoat. “Well, she can’t 
have it! She’s coming home with me. Tonight!” 

Miss Corning smiled. “That’s a matter you’ll 
have to discuss with Amy.” 

He watched her leave the room with the erect car¬ 
riage of a spinster who does not wish to give any¬ 
thing of herself even to her gait. He sat down on 
the nearest chair, his eyes running over walls and 
floor. Five minutes passed. He got up and paced 
the room. Turning from the window, he saw Amy 
standing in the door. 

She was wrapped in a soft white coat he had not 


243 


244 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


seen before. Her eyes were altered, their hardness 
now a calm and indifferent gray as she waited for 
his greeting. He could not give her words. His 
throat swelled and in his ears pounded the surf of 
a struggling sea. She came in rather heavily and 
sat down in a carved black chair, looking over at 
him. Her hands were crossed on her knees and she 
bent forward as if protecting the weight of her body 
from his eyes. 

Power returned to his limbs in a great shock that 
sent him forward to her chair. He went on his 
knees and embraced her with an outbreak of hoarse 
words. “Amy, come back to me! Say you’re 
through with that man! Don’t you care for me at 
all, darling? Oh, I’ve gone through hell! You 
don’t know how—I love you with every breath. It’s 
horrible not to have you. You need me how, 
darling, to—you must let me take care of you.” He 
pressed her swollen body in his arms. “My poor 
little girl’s birthday and I didn’t know! I brought 
you some flowers, darling—over there on the table. 
Tomorrow you can choose a present—whatever you 
like.” He lifted her hands to his face and kissed 
them. “Cold on a day like this? Why, darling, 
you’ve nothing on under that coat! Hurry, get 
dressed. It’s late. You’re coming out with me. I’ll 
carry you to the taxi.” 

She stirred in the belt of his arms. “Yes, Daniel.” 
Her foot touched his knee and he brought his hand 
down to her ankle. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


245 


“No stockings?” He lifted her foot in his palm 
and looked down at her pink satin mules. “I re¬ 
member these. You wore them for your bath. I 
always liked them better than those brocaded things 
with feathers. You seemed unapproachable with 
those others. Remember how you used to say ‘Mind 
my hair, Daniel ?’ ” He swung the narrow foot in 
his hand and pushed up the edge of the white coat 
from her ankle. “Blue thin veins even here. Shin¬ 
ing alabaster.” 

Amy gave a faint little laugh. “Don’t be silly. 
Alabaster isn’t the same color at all.” Her voice 
finished in a little roulade. 

Hearing the old metallic timbre fired him. He 
snatched off her slipper and bent his mouth to her 
foot. His hot breath beat on her flesh as it rushed 
in and out of his lungs in great shudders. My ges¬ 
ture of abasement. Beatitudes for her having been 
born for my hands. Why doesn’t she speak again? 
Her silence is bitter but beautiful. Not alabaster. 
Ivory, cool and polished. Again in my arms tonight 
—Amy—Amy- 

“Amy!” He raised his eyes to her grave face. 
“Tell me you’re coming home tonight! You haven’t 
answered me! You must come—oh, you must, dar¬ 
ling ! I’ll tie you up and carry you, gagged, through 
the streets!” 

She placed a nerveless hand lightly on his fore¬ 
head. “Don’t talk so wildly, Daniel. Yes, I’ll come. 
But be calm. Now let me dress while you smoke a 



246 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


cigarette. There are some of the kind you like on 
that table.” 

He walked with her to the door and kissed her, 
feeling his triumphant blood leap through his veins. 
“Hurry, Amy. Hurry, darling.” 

She smiled back at him, “Be reasonable, Daniel. 
I have everything to do.” 

“But you might change your mind.” 

She met his gaze with sadness in her eyes. Her 
mouth relaxed wistfully. “Are you sure you want 
me? Would you want me no matter what I’d 
done ?” 

He winced. She means she was in love with 

Sydney. He may have kissed her-“Yes, Amy. 

I can’t get free of you. I would if I could—not now 
—I mean, these past weeks-” 

“Then I won’t change my mind.” 

He watched her go down the hall, walking slowly 
and conscious of her sealed and hidden burden. 



XVIII 


Mary knocked at Daniel’s door. “Mrs. Geer says 
to go in her room for breakfast.” 

Opening his eyes, he called, “Come and shut my 
window.” 

Mary crossed the room primly, a plump young 
woman with a streak of dark down on her upper 
lip. “It’s cold today,” she said. 

“Is the steam on yet?” 

She pulled down the window and closed the heavy 
curtains. “Oh, yes, sir. Day before yesterday. 
Mrs. Geer isn’t going to get up. I’ll fix the little 
table by her bed.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Almost ten. Mrs. Geer’s been awake since nine.” 

“Well—bring the papers.” He yawned and 
stretched out his bony legs along the cold sheets, 
then drew them back quickly into voluptuous warmth. 
He lay on his back and surveyed the room’s browns 
and yeliows, and pleased by his dresser’s glass top, 
the toilet articles, padded chairs, the table’s brass 
bowl filled with yellow asters, his colored books in 
the case along the wall. I, the living force, among 
my dumb servitors. The Sundays I lay in Newark 
on an iron bed and gazed at a scarred yellow wash- 

247 


248 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

stand, my chair with its broken cane seat, a bit of 
gray matting with ravelled edges. Ruth had a rag 
carpet and a pink bed spread. She made white 
curtains with dots for her window. Bessie helped 
her. Bessie was pretty. Too fat. The day I put 
a baby toad down her neck. Squealed like a pig. I 
should have kissed her instead. Missed her. Missed 
Minnie, too. That other girl with black hair would 
have been appetising. They all stayed with Ruth 
over night. But what does one know at that age? 
I must have been seventeen before I led my first 
into the old daisy field. A dog was barking. I felt 
her heart jumping against her side. It had been 
raining. My feet were wet. The old leather of my 
shoes smelled like her father’s harness shop. It 
embarrassed me. I wanted to run away. The moon 
came up. I put my face in her hair—the smell 
made me drunk—we sank down on the daisies- 

Mary came in with the papers and laid them, cold 
and damp, on his bed. “Breakfast’s ready.” 

“All right. I’ll take my bath afterward.” He 
flung off his covers and stepped into slippers. The 
dressing gown he had bought for the honeymoon 
was hanging on the closet door. He put it on at 
the mirror before combing his hair, bending forward 
to examine the high forehead, persistent nose and 
straight tight mouth. He laid down the comb and 
pulled his hand along his jaw. It grows faster as 
I grow older. They say it grows after you’re dead, 
too, when no barber would shave you. Mucous mem- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


249 


branes first to go. Whiskers the last, thrusting 
themselves hopefully through leaking flesh. Na¬ 
poleon, Voltaire and that Swedish king all had 
beards when they were dug up. By the beard of the 
prophet—by the post mortem beard of the morti¬ 
fying prophet. The sins of the prophets were their 
beards. 

In the bathroom he washed his face and patted 
talcum powder on his cheeks with Amy’s puff. 
I’m not hiding a bristle. She’ll see them all and 
think I should have shaved an hour ago. She’s had 
her bath. 

He looked down at the wet towels spread along 
the edge of the tub and touched one with his finger. 
Then he hurried to Amy’s door. “I’ve just thought 
what that mysterious sin against the Holy Ghost 
might be,” he said going to her bed. “Whiskers.” 

She looked up at him from the pillows and laid 
down her book. “That’s not very funny.” But she 
smiled. She had pinned up her hair and rouged her 
mouth. Her hands smelled of bottled flowers. 
“Pour the coffee, Daniel. It’s Sunday and I’m 
going to read all day. Are you going out?” 

He kissed her and sat down at the table. “I ought 
to go to Newark. What do you think ? Did I tell 
you mother telephoned yesterday? Father had a 
heart attack. He’s getting on. I don’t suppose 
he’ll live very long.” 

Amy shivered. “You’d better go. Don’t have any¬ 
thing to reproach yourself for afterward.” 


250 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He looked at her quickly. “I’m sorry I spoke of 
it. You mustn’t think of unpleasant things.” 

Her eyes met his in an apprehensive little glance. 
She took up her spoon and began to sip coffee. He 
cut an orange into halves and sprinkled them with 
sugar. “Daniel.” 

“Oh, want half of this?” 

“No. I wish I could go away until everything is 
over. Would you mind? I’d come back afterward 
strong — and thin. Think of being thin again, 
Daniel!” 

He laid down his spoon. “Certainly not. You’re 
being morbid.” He studied her face. “What’s the 
real reason you want to go away?” She did not 
answer but lay gazing into her cup. “Do you want 
to get away from me?” 

“No. I—I-” 

“Just a morbid idea, darling. You think I mind 
your looking— Say, don’t you know in almost all 
countries women are proud to be observed when they 


Her face was sad and pointed and her thin eye¬ 
lids drooped. She raised them presently and he saw 
her eyes had filled with tears. He leaned forward 
and laid his hand on her. It sank into the silk 
coverlet. “Don’t worry about anything, darling. 
You’ll be all right.” He pressed his hand down, 
then looked at her in surprise. “I say, but that baby 

is going to be a whopper—and only six months-” 

She turned her eyes away. 



PART III 


251 


I 


I 

Bob Edmunds came slouching into the office. 
The worn collar of his overcoat was turned up and 
his nostrils were as pinched as if the month had 
been January instead of a rather mild November. 
His eyebrows were pulled together over sullen wan¬ 
dering eyes. He put out his hand and spoke with a 
forced enthusiasm. “Howdy, Dan.” 

From his chair at the desk Daniel gave him a 
keen appraisal. “Sit down, Bob, sit down. How’s 
everything in Jersey?” 

Edmunds dragged a chair across the floor. It 
made a grating penetrating sound that gave ears to 
the backbone. He set his shabby shoes beneath the 
desk, staring at them and scowling away from 
Daniel’s gaze. “Not so good. Everyone’s not lucky 
like you.” He seemed to be turning over grievances 
in a cankered mind and examining again their 
familiar surfaces. 

“What’s the trouble, Bob?” 

He replied in a grudging voice, “Well, I had a 
couple of run-ins with old Bill McMahon. You 
know what a big stiff he is.” 


253 


254 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Sure, I do. Have a smoke.” Daniel pushed a 
box across his desk and Edmunds dipped in fat 
fingers, bringing out a cigarette and lighting it, his 
breath wheezing through hairy nostrils in an apathy 
of repetition. 

Daniel watched his face. He’s lost his job. Got 
drunk and fell down on an important story. Old Bill 
never fired a man for less. At the end of his rope 
and wants me to put him on for old time’s sake. 
I’ll tell him this is no home for broken down re¬ 
porters. “How’s Effie?” 

“Effie’s fine. There’s a baby coming along.” 

Daniel twisted about in his chair. “There is? 
Well, well. That’s great. Congratulations. Say 
Bob. You’re not the only one.” 

“You, too ? Gosh, Dan! Well what do you think 
of that?” Then he looked down, his face setting in 
bitter lines. “Huh! It wasn’t bad news for you! 
A job like this —you have nothing to worry about.” 

“No, I guess I haven’t.” He studied Edmunds* 
frown, his tight mouth relaxing. Annunciations 
among males. Hail, thou that art highly favored, 
the Lord is with thee. Our pride in the reproductive 
ability. The first time I’ve felt linked with him in 
ten years. 

Edmunds drew smoke into his lungs and sent it 
forth in a faint cloud. He cleared his throat. He 
began to look timidly at Daniel, his eyes shamed be¬ 
tween their fat rims. “Say, Dan. I suppose your 
staff’s pretty full?” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


255 


Daniel nodded. “Full up.” He paused to light a 
cigarette. Poor devil, that must have cost him some¬ 
thing. It galls him to see my success and think that 
we started together at fifteen per. All his old blus¬ 
ter gone now. Guess I’d better give him a lift. 
“But I might squeeze you in somewhere if you’ll 
keep sober. How’s forty dollars? And if you be¬ 
have yourself, I’ll boost it to fifty later on.” 

Edmunds slumped in his chair. “God, what a 
relief! Effie’s been nearly crazy. I didn’t want to 
tell you—we’re down to our last ten dollars.” Tears 
gathered in his eyes. He put out his hand and 
gripped Daniel’s arm. 

“Well, now, that’s too bad.” Daniel’s sympathy 
increased Edmunds’ weak emotion. He brought 
out an unironed handkerchief and blew into it 
noisily, shrinking from Daniel’s eyes. Daniel looked 
away. His nerve gone from bad luck and bad 
whiskey. If he doesn’t pull himself together, out he 
goes. I’ll have no dead wood in my office, not if 
Effie comes through with triplets. “Say, you’d bet¬ 
ter take something. Will twenty fix you up? You can 
go to work Monday. But I want it back, Bob. Ten 
the second week, ten the third. Don’t forget.” 

“You’re a prince, Dan. Maybe Effie won’t say a 
prayer for you!” His fat cheeks trembled as the 
muscles worked under the skin. “Guess I’ll run 
along now and telephone the girl.” 

“I’d ask you to lunch if I had time,” said Daniel. 
“But it can’t be done today. I’m going to have a 


256 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

sandwich in a lunchroom and be back in fifteen 
minutes.” 

“That's all right. Seen your folks lately?” 

“I went over again last Sunday. Father’s break¬ 
ing up fast. He had a stroke last month.” 

Edmunds wagged his head. “Well, we all got to 
go, Dan. No use thinking of that.” He pulled 
down his hat and buttoned his coat. “So 
long. See you Monday.” He smiled, his lips 
spreading away from the edges of decayed teeth. 
He waved his hand from the door in a jaunty fare¬ 
well gesture. 

Daniel went to the washroom. Typical of the 
tribe. Now that he has a job and thirty dollars, the 
worried lines are disappearing. All’s well and the 
baby will be born and cared for somehow. There’s 
always an umbrella offered in a rain storm and he 
knows it. 

Trainer was washing his face, his thick body bent 
over a bowl. He cupped up water in his hairy 
hands and breathed in snorts of discomfort. Then 
with eyes squeezed shut he stepped away and 
fumbled for an end of the roller towel. His blind 
choice fell upon a soiled, wet spot and he growled 
and opened his eyes. He pulled down the towel 
and patted his face dry. Seeing Daniel, he half 
smiled. “They tell me Slater’s willing to patch 
things up,” he said. “I guess you tamed him, all 
right.” 

“The ads go hack tomorrow,” said Daniel. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


257 

“Well, I’m glad it turned out that way.” He pulled 
up his cuffs and turned on the water. 

Trainer dried his hands and looked at Daniel with 
a glimmer of admiration. “He’s been a terror for 
years,” he said. “Been more damned trouble than 
all the others put together. We always gave in 
before. Once we had to fire two men.” 

“That so?” Daniel’s tone was indifferent, casual. 
He mustn’t see I’m pleased he’s lost his perpetual 
grouch. If he’s playing for a raise he’ll be disap¬ 
pointed. 

“Ye-ah, I was saying only this morning to Stevens 
on the Trumpet that we had a bright young man 
here. That’s right, Mr. Geer.” 

“Thanks.” 

Trainer pulled at his necktie before the mirror. 
“I’d like to talk over the Hurley case with you to¬ 
night and hear what you think.” 

Smiling, Daniel glanced up at the uncouth reflec¬ 
tion in the glass. “I’m going to stick as long as Mr. 
Bird will let me. Hurley’s as guilty as hell and we 
have the proofs.” 

“Say, we’ve had the proofs of cases like that a 
dozen times,” said Trainer. “Locked in the safe, 
too. But when the pressure was turned on we 
dropped out—and taxes went up.” 

“Why mention taxes? You know you don’t give 
a hang about the ethical side of it as long as you can 
spring a good scandal story.” 

Trainer rocked back and forth on ungainly shoes. 


258 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Of course not. What good newspaper man does? 
Do you ?” He 'brought out a chocolate-colored lump 
from his pocket and bit into it with stained teeth. 

Drying his hands, Daniel said, “I’m afraid I 
don't. Not nearly enough.” 

“Not enough, eh? Sounds as if you still had 
some of your fresh young ideals left from college. 
Well, I’ll give you two more years to come out of 
that.” 

Daniel went to the door. “You can’t tell, Trainer. 
I might even grow some new ones.” 

Trainer, following, called after him, “You won’t 
last long on this sheet if you do.” 


II 

In a small lunchroom across the square Daniel 
ordered an omelette, cheese and an apple. He read 
as he ate, pressed between two girls. They passed 
salt to each other, striking his newspaper with each 
courtesy. Annoyed, he put the apple in his pocket 
and went to the desk with his check. He offered a 
bill to the girl cashier and she slapped down some 
coins on the corrugated metal. 

“Hello there!” 

He sent an involuntary glance of inquiry into her 
berry-black eyes, wondering at their recognition. 
Then he saw clipped hair in stubby points, velvet 
skin and a full-blown mouth. “Hello,” he said. 
“Hello.” He could see in her stare amusement and 
a certain contempt. “Well, you have a job again.” 

“Yep.” She was chewing gum indifferently, as 
if it were an inseparable part of her duties. She 
wore a pink dress with a muslin ruff at the neck 
and no sleeves. Her rounded arms were of flawless 
flesh. “Still mad?” She smiled at him with bright 
empty eyes and showed him the white even teeth of 
a peasant girl. “Gee, you were hopping that night.” 

A man standing behind him snickered and Daniel 
259 


26 o 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


blushed. He straightened his shoulders. “Who stays 
mad at a pretty girl?” He spoke to buy his self- 
respect from a stranger. “Well, be good and hold 
down your job.” He started away. 

“I’ll do that little thing,” she called after him. 
“So long, Danny. Come again.” 

He hurried into the street, his ears tingling. It 
fatigues me to think of that night. My cheap stand¬ 
ards, the vulgar invitation to the dance of life. No 
wonder women despise men in their hearts. Almost 
any man can be put into leading strings of lust. In¬ 
tegrity and beauty lost for a ruttish and ridiculous 
moment of insane ecstasy. The sea becomes calm, 
the four winds die down but the storm of sex is 
never appeased. Theocritus said winter is a re¬ 
doubtable evil for trees; for springs, a drought; for 
birds, the snare; for wild beasts, the net; for man 
the desire for a tender maiden. Suppress this 
strongest emotion and you get material for monas¬ 
teries. Over-indulge it and you get cases for pathol¬ 
ogy* 

In the square a bootblack knelt to polish the shoes 
of a young girl. One foot placed on his box, she 
waited stiffly, a newspaper opened in her hands. 
Two men stood behind her, indicating to each other 
with furtive grins her long silk stockings. 

Daniel passed with tolerant contempt. Pinguid 
legs still an aphrodisiac to that type. Well, I dare¬ 
say it’s healthier than reflections in the ceilings, the 
aperture in the wall and the prized trapang of China. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


261 


Man, the cunning carnivore, turned his intelligence 
toward stimulation before he constructed a philo¬ 
sophic system. The returns were more immediate, 
more pleasant, for the cells of the body are easier 
to manage than those of the mind. Sex, the macula 
of mankind, spotting even the thinkers whose abber- 
ations were infamous. Even noble Aristotle? I 
don’t know. I like to think of him as a lad playing 
with pebbles on an Hellenic beach, his hair bound 
from his eyes and his forehead already swelling out 
above the brows, loaded with unborn wisdom. Does 
nothing matter or does everything? Even that we 
can never know in our poverty. And one day after 
spent humanity has perished it will all be as if it had 
never been. The airless earth, lit faintly by rays 
from the dying sun, will roll on, ever more slowly, 
to its destruction at a spot already fixed in the uni¬ 
verse. In that appointed collision the bones and 
musty records of innumerable races of men will 
flame into gases. Nothing left but a flash of light 
in space and atoms astonished by their sudden 
speed. 

“Mr. Geer!” 

Daniel returned to himself in the city room. A 
telephone girl was signalling him from her cage. 
He crossed the room. “Yes, what is it?” 

“Message to call Dr. Lane’s hospital as soon as 
you come in. Shall I get them for you?” 

“Yes.” His voice came weakly from his throat 
and his premonition crept down his spine in an icy 


262 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


contact. He felt the roots of his hair tickle his scalp 
like quick finger tips. ‘Til take it in that booth.” 
He walked away with sagging knees. 

A young reporter came along, whistling Annie 
Laurie. He made for the booth, pencil and paper 
in his hands. He reached the door as Daniel came 
up. Daniel put out his arm and pushed him away. 
Then he went in and sat down, leaving the young 
man to stare at him stupidly through the glass door. 
He waited, the dumb receiver at his car. About 
him the walls were marked by the pencils of waiting 
reporters. He studied the initials with an attention 
that conveyed nothing to his numbed brain. The 
reporter moved away and the receiver became ar¬ 
ticulate. 

‘‘Hello! Who wants Dr. Lane?” 

“This is Daniel Geer, doctor. What's happened? 
Anything wrong with my wife?” His voice seemed 
tied in his throat. Each word required a separate 
gagging effort. He made a grimace, lifting the 
muscles of his stiff face. 

“Nothing wrong so far, Mr. Geer. I brought her 
here an hour ago. She’s beginning to have pains 
pretty regularly now.” 

“But—but—something must be wrong! It isn’t 
time for-” 

Dr. Lane’s voice interrupted, tolerant and amused. 
“I guess you didn’t count right. Now don’t worry 

_ a 

Daniel shouted, “Count right! We’ve only been 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 263 

married— Something must be wrong. I’m coming 
right up.” 

The pause sang in his ear. Then Dr. Lane’s 
voice ran along the wire again, subtly altered, re¬ 
luctant. “Well, I don’t know—everything seems all 
right. You’d better stay where you are. I’ll keep 
you informed.” He hung up. 

Daniel thrust open the door and made his way 
through the city room to his office door. Outside at 
a small desk Miss Elliot sat typing. The outlines 
of her fingers, pecking accurately, were blurred by 
the deft speed of her hands. He went to her desk. 
“Can you come in a moment?” 

She glanced up at him and her hands became in¬ 
active on the keys. Her eyes resisted his distress. 
“All right.” Her tone was sullen. She drew in the 
corners of her mouth and looked down with an 
offended air to beat out another sentence in a rattle 
of defiance. Then she rose and picked up pencil 
and notebook. 

He waited just inside the door. He closed it as 
she passed in and stood regarding her with vacant 
eyes. 

“What is it, Mr. Geer? Dictation?” Her voice 
was full of distaste, agitated. She held herself 
rigidly and met his eyes. 

Walking to her side he demanded of her, “Don’t 
act like that!” 

Flames sprang up in her eyes. “I’ll act as I 
please ! M 


264 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

He made a swift movement toward her and pulled 
her to his side, conscious of his power over her. He 
felt the heat of her flesh rush into his hand. “See 
here. I’m nearly crazy. Forget everything but that 
for a moment, will you?” 

She relaxed in his hands, still sullen-eyed. “What 
can / do ?” 

“Do you know anything about babies? Your 
sister—is a premature baby dangerous for the 
mother? My wife—she’s at the hospital—just had 
word-” 

Her wrist melted into his palm. Her eyes 
stretched wide, growing soft and suffused. “Oh! 
I’m so sorry-” 

“Is it dangerous?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve heard of two babies like that. 
Everything was all right, I guess. They have in¬ 
cubators-” 

His fingers were still digging into her flesh. He 
felt her vibrate under his touch as if he were sending 
an electric current into her. Looking down he saw 
in her eyes a cot on which lay a woman twisting in 
agony. Her pain ground in his own bones. The 
faint scent of roses from Miss Elliot’s hair became 
in his nostrils the acrid chemical odor of a hospital. 
The red mouth brought into his mind blood spilt at 
births. He groaned and closed his eyes. Amy, 
Amy! I’d do it for you if I could! My fault and 
you pay for it, torn and rent apart for answering my 
pleas. The human race tortures woman as we all 





THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


265 


enter the world through the same small gateway. 
How rotten! How cowardly! My Amy, my beauti¬ 
ful darling, forgive- 

Miss Elliot was speaking in a soft new voice. 
“I’m so sorry. It must be terrible. ,, He opened 
his eyes on her grief and she threw up her hand and 
clung to his shoulder, trembling and pushing her 
body against him. 

As if in a dream and without sensation for his act, 
Daniel bent his stricken face and kissed the girl’s 
warm swelling mouth. He felt her sink down and 
grow weak. She clutched the cloth of his coat in 
her fingers and pulled at it with little jerks. She 
began to sob, “Oh, I love you, I love you!” 

“No—no, you don’t. You mustn’t talk like that. 
Don’t cry. Stop it!” Her tears were a reminder 
and a reproach. What am I doing with this strange 
body in my arms? Why did I kiss her? Amy, 
Amy! He pushed the girl aside and went to his 
desk. He pulled down the lid and went to take his 
hat and coat from their nail. “Now you and 
Trainer get out the paper.” He tried to hide behind 
a smile and watched her standing miserably where 
he had left her, sobbing into her capable hands. On 
his path to the door, he halted before her and shook 
her shoulder. “Come, now, let’s see your courage. 
What if you had to go through—think of poor Mrs. 
Geer!” 

She burst out, “Oh, she’s all right! She’s lucky! 
You love her.” 



266 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


“Stop it!” He shook her again. “Of course I 
love my wife. Now be a good girl and I’ll call you 
later on the telephone and see how everything is 

getting on. I’ll ask for you-” 

“A telephone call!” She seemed falling into a 
spasm of rage. “What good is a telephone call!” 

He snapped out, “You’re being ridiculous! Why 

anyone walking in here now would think-!” He 

pulled open the door, and hurried out. 



Ill 


He sat in an anteroom of gray, enamelled walls, 
gazing fixedly at the secretary at work by the win¬ 
dow, following each gesture, each flutter of her 
fingers, each change in the folds of her stiff dress 
as it moved with her breathing. That’s what they 
call efficiency. Playing chess with dates and room 
arrangements while I wait here forgotten. I sup¬ 
pose she’s long since grown contemptuous for im¬ 
portunate husbands and lives alone with an emascu¬ 
lated tomcat. What a stink of stale drugs! Their 
odor kills smell of blood and severed flesh. Cancer 
has a penetrating smell. They say you never forget 
it. All flesh smells. The Chinese say white men 
smell like corpses. But they never hold their noses 
in their own sewage-strewn streets. I’d better speak 
to that dried prune again. She’ll wait until they 
won’t let me go up. It may be coming now. No. 
Never comes with a rush. Only by a slow grinding 
debouchment. Grinding open joints by the force of 
pushing muscles. Horrible barricade, red as hell. 
Bloody life soaking out, leaving emptied veins. 
Purple distended flesh framing a pulp. Germ be¬ 
comes pulp. Pulp grows into Pascal—me—every¬ 
body— 


267 



268 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


He left his chair and walked to the desk, “Please 
ask if I may see my wife.” 

She looked up with hard bright eyes behind 
their glasses. “I’ve sent up word to Dr. Lane. 
You’ll have to wait.” She looked down at her 
charts. 

Daniel turned back to his chair. Damn these cold¬ 
blooded women. Harder than men. A woman sup¬ 
posed to be sensitive and sympathetic. Argument 
against putting them on juries. She’d make a good 
foreman. Bet she never had a lover. She’d think 
love was vulgar. Funny she has a job around the 
results of it. Wonder if I dare make a break for the 
stairs. She couldn’t stop me. An outrage to keep 
a man from his wife at such a time! 

Dr. Lane, tall bald and bored, came in through 
swinging doors. He gave Daniel a soft disapprov¬ 
ing hand. “Now don’t get nervous, Mr. Geer. 
Nothing to worry about. You can come up for a 
few minutes if you like.” 

Daniel followed him, expecting to be ushered with 
whispers into a darkened room. Instead the win¬ 
dows were open and in the sunlight Amy was walk¬ 
ing up and down. A nurse was mixing something 
in a glass. A casual air of leisure lay over the slow 
activities of the women—Amy’s heavy step, the 
nurse’s small movements concerned with goblet and 
spoon. They turned their eyes to the door and Amy 
leaned her ponderous body against the foot of the 
bed as if bracing herself for an attack on her 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


269 


strength. She wore a fur coat that covered a check¬ 
ered silk bathrobe of gay colors. Neither fur nor 
silk met across her distended abdomen and a strip of 
rose chiffon revealed the drum-tight skin. As 
Daniel came to her, she looked at him with quivering 
eyes. Her face wore a strained bloodless expres¬ 
sion. 

Standing at her side, he stared at her, feeling a 
chilling constraint in the presence of the vested au¬ 
thority at his back. His passionate questions, solici¬ 
tude, the burn of his anxiety, were checked by the 
sound of Dr. Lane clearing his throat. He asked in 
an uncertain voice, “What has gone wrong? Did 
you fall? Shouldn’t you be in bed?” 

“I—I—” Her gaze leaped over his shoulder in an 
apprehensive look at Dr. Lane, a glance that seemed 
to appeal for silence and solitude. For a moment 
no sound was in the shining room. Then the spoon 
tinkled against the glass in the nurse’s hands and 
Amy drew a deep breath. “Please go away, Daniel. 
It’s all right. Don’t talk to me now—please, please! 
I can’t—oh, please go!” She clasped her hands in a 
trembling gesture of entreaty. 

Daniel turned from her to the doctor. “Will it be 
a bad case, doctor? Perhaps you’d better get in a 
specialist-” 

The doctor moved forward, his eyes steely in a 
bland professional face. “Why, there’s nothing to 
get excited about. She’s getting on all right.” 

Daniel gave him an insulting glance. “Nothing 



270 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


to get excited about in a premature birth? I know 
better than that!” 

Amy lunged forward and seized his arm. ‘Til be 
all right, Daniel. Please don’t stay any longer. I 
must have quiet—my nerves—oh, go away, go 
away!” She swayed and a chalky whiteness settled 
over her face. Lines of pain appeared about her 
mouth. She lifted her hands and pressed them into 
her abdomen. Her body grew rigid and she began 
to gasp and whimper. Then a loud cry burst from 
her compressed lips. And another. A third. 

A sense of fear passed through Daniel in a spas¬ 
modic wave. He was as pale as she. “Oh, my God, 
doctor,” he said, “this is horrible—horrible! Can’t 
you do something?” The doctor looked at him with 
unmoved face. The nurse went on stirring her mix¬ 
ture without haste, calmly. Daniel turned again to 
Amy and went weakly to her side. His arms lifted 
themselves to embrace her. 

She gave another cry and bent forward, her eyes 
opaque with pain. “Go away! Doctor, take him 
away!” The words screamed into his face, sent him 
half way across the room. The doctor met him and 
pulled his arm. “You’ll have to go now. Miss 
Brant, have Mrs. Geer lie down. I’ll make an ex¬ 
amination.” He dragged Daniel to the door, opened 
it and pushed him into the corridor. 

Daniel swung about with waving arms but the 
door closed sharply on his protest. He stood gaz¬ 
ing at its whiteness. Christ! She’s still screaming. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


271 


That damned quack throws me out of my own wife’s 
room like a professional bouncer! I won’t stand for 
it. I’ve got a right to be in there! 

He seized the knob and turned it. The door held 
firmly. It was locked. He shook it and rattled the 
knob. He knocked and pounded on the thick panels. 
No one opened to him. He heard the rush of feet 
beyond the curve in the corridor. A big man in a 
white coat and a woman in uniform appeared. The 
man bolted at him and thrust him from the door, 
his face hot and glowering. 

“What the hell’s the idea?” he demanded. “Don’t 
you know you’re in a hospital ?” 

Daniel faced him and shouted, “That’s all right! 
My wife’s being murdered in there! I guess I got a 
right to-” 

“You get out of here,” said the man brutally. He 
stood over Daniel with the imminent destructive po¬ 
tency of a leaning tower, the nurse, buttress-like, at 
his back. 

Daniel turned on his heel and walked away with 
quick hard steps. 



IV 


Central Park was dank with a cold mist that 
had penetrated Daniel’s clothing and lay as close to 
his skin as a cerement. He had been sitting on a 
bench during hours that had followed other hours of 
wandering beneath stripped trees, along paths 
patched with broken shadows and Tyrian purple re¬ 
flections from the electric lamps. Other men sat on 
scattered benches, all staring ahead, alone in their 
dreaming, each with a face of torpid tragedy. He 
eyed them, dizzy with cold, through bleared eyes. 
When idle the intelligent and the stupid act alike. 
On a beach both men throw stones into the water, 
the stupid man in volatile contentment, the other with 
urticating thoughts that he tries to send forth with 
each stone. Here sit some hazy figures, inactive, un¬ 
distinguished one from the other, each of us busy 
with a contemplation of his life. My new triad, 
their unpaid rent or unloving wives. These blurred 
faces under the trees hold all the latency of a tene¬ 
brous race waiting in the Hyrcynian wood of the 
ancient world for a sign from their burly gods— 
still believing, potentially apostate, threaded by a net¬ 
work of weak emotions. I, the strong ego, rest 
among these passive men, paralyzed by my memory 
of Amy’s cries. The travesty of sex dies les fem- 


272 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


273 


mes. What do they get from our rapacious rapture 
that fills the heavens. A pain in the belly. The pa¬ 
tience of the plastic female insures continuation. A 
man would let the race extinguish itself before sub¬ 
mitting rubric births and I call it a damned good 
idea. The anguish of a difficult delivery ought to 
cloy the pain-lust of a Caligula, a Claudius or even 
old Cheon-sin Yeow-wang himself. The Chinese 
the Worst for that sort of thing. I wonder if they 
held child-birth exhibitions in their torture gardens 
along with demonstrations of hot pliers, hanging 
hooks, wheels, dropping water, racks, screws and 
spikes. The torment of the victims’ severed nerves 
reacting pleasurably upon certain nerves of the on¬ 
lookers. A pleasure as old as mankind. Only pity 
is new, having been made fashionable by a gentle 
Jew. 

He moved, unbuttoning his coat and drawing out 
his watch. He held the disk in the palm of his hand 
and watched the light dance on the glass. Eleven 
o’clock. He sprang to his feet and struck out across 
the park in a dedalous path. The mist had turned to 
fine lines of rain that were blown into his face by 
a rising wind. He began to shiver, quickening his 
step as the edge of the park came into sight. An 
emergence from my lethargy. I feel again fatigue 
and a renewal of anxiety. She must not guess that 
I sat quiescent through the hours of her anguish, 
forgetting the horror of nature’s immutable pro¬ 
cesses. The weight of gestation, the blood and slime 


274 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


of parturition. Ugh! The thought is as good as 
a dose of ipecac. The same for all and no escape. 
The red woman in the lice-lined blanket of her wig¬ 
wam and my Amy in a tiffany nightgown, sur¬ 
rounded by the luxurious obstetrical instruments of 
civilization. 

He stepped from under dripping trees into Central 
Park West and looked at the mackle of buildings, 
shining vaguely in the rain. Not a taxicab in sight. 
Motion might appease my torment until I learn of 
hers. I’d better telephone first and avoid more in¬ 
sults from those institutional machines. 

He crossed the street and entered a drug store. 
His heart thumped in disordered beats as he gave 
the number. Minutes of waiting. His body tingled 
and great drops of sweat burst through his pores. 
His blood leaped upward and collected in his head, 
a surging fountain that spurted its strength against 
his eyes. He closed them in pain. His mouth 
parched suddenly and he felt about with his tongue 
for moisture. Struggling against the intolerable 
pain in his head, he sent forth a question. “How is 
Mrs. Geer?” 

“Just a minute. Hold the wire.” 

He put his hand to his temples. A bloody foetus. 
A caricature of man. It gasps, wriggles, waves 
blind hands and feet. It holds the secrets of races 
past and the seed of mankind’s future. 

“Mrs. Geer is doing very well. The baby was 
born at eight o’clock.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


275 


“Oh. That’s fine. Is it—a boy?” 

“No. A girl.” 

“Oh.” 

“Is this Mr. Geer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, Miss Brant said to tell you you can come 
to see your wife in the morning.” 

“All right.” 

He put the receiver back on its hook and sat 
staring at it. A heavy cramping sensation gripped 
his stomach. The booth grew dark. He bent his 
head down on the little shelf by the telephone and 
began to sob in gulps that shook his body like an 
ague. 


V 


Amy's chalk-white face was framed to pathos by 
two bright braids that had successfully fought for 
their allotment of her vitality. As Daniel came to 
the bed, she smiled and nodded at the yellow roses in 
his hands. “Thank you,” she said in a frail voice. 
“What lovely color!” 

Daniel took off his overcoat, looking at the nurse. 
She obeyed his eyes and went to the door. It closed 
behind her with a cautious click. He went on his 
knees beside the bed. “Was it very dreadful, dar¬ 
ling?” She twisted her lips and he lifted her pale 
hands and pressed them to his mouth. “Forgive 
me!” Now it was over, and he saw her lying pite¬ 
ously drained, he stabbed himself with reproaches 
for his calm hours in the park. It isn’t just. I 
should be made to suffer her pangs. Tears stung 
his lids as he looked into her haggard face on the 
pillow, the eyes lusterless, even bored, now that their 
necessity to reflect pain had passed—too sapped of 
strength to move over him. 

“Don’t—it’s finished now.” Her hand stirred in 
his and he squeezed it cruelly in his fingers. “Daniel, 
mamma is coming this afternoon. Will you make 
her comfortable?” Her voice wavered, rising and 
falling from effort to weakness. 

“Yes, dear. Don’t think of anything except get- 
276 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


277 


ting strong again.” He rose from his knees, keep¬ 
ing her hands in his and looking about the room. 
“Amy—where is— it?” 

She drew a quick breath. “Outside. They keep 
them in a sun parlor.” 

A picture formed before his eyes. Rows and 
rows of blind babies, sleeping with their puckered 
faces turned toward streaming sunlight. 

Amy spoke again. “I won’t have my daughter 
called ‘it/ Daniel.” 

He smiled down on her effort at gaiety. “Well, 
I’d like to see— her.” He waited, then added an 
anxious question. “Is she healthy?” 

Before Amy could speak, the nurse came 
through the door with an important bustle. She 
held a white bundle in her arms. Coming to the bed, 
she laid it down and turned to a table. She dipped 
cotton into a glass of white liquid and returned to 
interpose her rotund starchiness between Daniel and 
the pillows. Then, opening Amy’s nightgown at the 
neck, she bent down in some mysterious rite of hy¬ 
giene. 

Daniel came forward, stepping on his toes, and 
stared at the vibrating little bale on the bed. It had a 
purplish, unhappy face, as wizened as a monkey’s 
muzzle. Its mouth was like a small purple grape. As 
he gazed, the grap split open and the edges moved 
out and in with a sucking motion. Daniel’s pale eyes 
spread wide and he felt disgust and awe. Like 
a tentacle searching for food. The first instinct. 


278 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

And the last. Like father’s clinging appetite. A tiny 
female ape. A son would have been more intimate. 
This girl will be like Amy, mysterious, removed, an¬ 
other female counted for the enemy’s side like an 
Amazon baby. Those women kept the female off¬ 
spring for their army and destroyed the males at 
birth. 

The nurse lifted the baby and put it at Amy’s 
breast. The small purple grape clung there, dilat¬ 
ing and closing as it fed in chiffon and lace. Amy 
with enchanted face closed her eyes and sheltered the 
mottled head with her hand in a gesture of isolating 
tenderness. 

“Isn’t she sweet?” cried the nurse with a fluttering 
look for Daniel. “She’ll soon get nice and fat, bless 
her dear little heart!” Her tone was professionally 
enthusiastic. Mothers and babies—bills and sala¬ 
ries—gratuities of gratitude. 

Daniel watched the sucking grape, his heart con¬ 
tracting at the intimacy of Amy’s physical bond with 
her child. His eyes passed over the miniature head 
where a plume of fine hairs lay in a line across the 
veined flesh. He put out his fingers and touched the 
silky line. “Amy,” he said. “Amy.” His tone was 
soft and wondering. “Look, darling. It’s black.” 

Amy opened her eyes. “I thought you’d speak of 
that,” she said. “My father was dark. Is your 
mother dark ? Or your father ?” 

‘They’re gray now,” said Daniel. “But father 
had dark hair.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


279 


She smiled and relaxed into the pillows. “That’s 
it. Two dark grandfathers.” Her arms, two 
swaddling bands of white bloodless flesh, went 
tighter about her child. She closed her eyes and 
seemed to dream behind their thin lids. 

The nurse passed from the room, clicking the 
door. Daniel bent forward and studied the baby’s 
busy scarlet face. It looks the same as the new-born 
beads on Ruth’s rosary of reproductions. They’re 
all alike the first six months. Then father’s nose or 
mother’s chin can be traced by doting eyes. This 
might be any man’s baby instead of mine. Sydney’s 
for instance. He has black hair. Syd-neeee. “It’s 
Sydney, isn’t it? I thought you’d be coming in to¬ 
night, my dear.” Over the teacups—a Greek smile 
for the bull in the Chinese pottery. “.mediae¬ 
val sonorities.a Chartres portal . . . . ” La¬ 

tin orums and ixes. The telegram to Atlantic City. 
Old Rufus saying, “The flowers are from young 
Harrington.” The night he kissed her wrist —“A de- 
main” His confusion in Boston when I went to 
fetch her back. The lilies like her beautiful hands. 
Her mother’s letter about time curing everything. 
From her faint she called out “Sydney.” And now a 
black-haired baby seven months after marriage. It’s 
curious how circumstances that make up evidence 
may be diverted from their just positions. Lucky 
for her that this Daniel, coming to the judgment, is 
wise enough to ask the name of the tree and save 
another innocent Suzannah from the elders. No 




280 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


more preposterous idea ever wedged itself into a 
man’s mind. Two dark grandfathers make one dark 
grandchild. And I love my wife above suspicion. 

He unclasped his hands. The palms were cold 
and wet. He came forward and asked without in¬ 
tention or warning within himself, “Amy, is this 
child mine or Sydney’s?” 

Her eyes sprang to attention but she returned his 
gaze without any change of expression, almost as 
if it had been a question for which she had been 
waiting. Her mouth began to relax presently, as it 
might have were a secret tension removed. She 
smiled. “Why, Daniel!” Her voice was fainter than 
it had been the last time she had spoken. The arms 
that wrapped the baby began to tremble. “What a 
question!” She sent out a little bleat of a laugh. “Is 
that a joke to cheer me up ? You have a curious idea 
of humor today.” Suddenly her smile seemed like 
the good-nature an artist paints on a mask. It had 
turned in a moment from soft amusement to a white 
wooden expression of false mirth. 

He continued to look into her face, his mouth 
open. Something was pressing upon his heart with 
a bitter weight that stopped his breathing. The tide 
in his veins grew sluggish and cold. Then a curtain 
of red haze snapped up into place before his eyes. 
Through it he saw a scarlet Amy with a black child 
at her breast. She was clutching at it with straining 
arms as if to protect it from a calamity. 

He sprang at her and shook her shoulder. “The 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


281 


truth! Don’t lie to me, damn you! Does this be¬ 
long to me or your lover ?” 

Her mouth loosened. Under the skin of her cheek 
a little nerve twitched, moving the flesh. The life in 
her eyes went out like a light. The lids fell. Her 
head rolled to one side and the muscles of her body 
relaxed with the slow motion of a punctured balloon. 
The baby, unsupported, slipped down on the bed. It 
sucked at the air and made little wheezing sounds of 
protest. 

Daniel brought back his hand from her limp flesh. 
He was shivering in an icy sweat. His teeth clicked 
in regular rhythm. He groaned, “Oh, my God, oh, 
my God, oh, my God.” Knee-high to him, Amy lay 
like a corpse. A narrow rim of white showed be¬ 
tween her eyelids. Her hair was spread like blood 
on her forehead. All at once the room seemed to 
him small and monotonous in its whiteness. He 
wanted to jump, to run, to feel his muscles spring 
and jerk back to the bones. The motionless body on 
the bed infuriated him. Action was what he had ex¬ 
pected from it. The angry movements, the fierce 
words of a woman unjustly accused. This swoon 
seemed a sign of a crushed humility, an admission 
of guilt. 

He went to the table and took up the glass of 
white liquid. Holding it over her face, he watched 
the drops splash and roll from her forehead into the 
pillow. She seemed not to breathe. For a moment 
he considered a bell that was enamelled into the wall 


282 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


by her bed. Then he leaned forward and pressed 
his finger to the button. 

He was still ringing when Miss Brant burst into 
the room. “For the Lord’s sake, what happening?” 
she cried. Her alarm and interest were as profes¬ 
sional as her enthusiasm for the baby had been. 
“Stop ringing that bell!” She examined Amy in a 
series of pats and glances. “Only weakness,” she 
said. “See, she’s coming round.” 

Daniel muttered, “I’ll go. Telephone later,” and 
went to the door, his joints stiff with pain. He felt 
he had been in the room for uncounted and heavy 
hours. 

Miss Brant laughed, an arid cackle of amusement. 
“Guess she frightened you,” she said. “You look 
kind of white. There she is! My! You scared your 
husband half to death.” 

Daniel, fixed at the open door, found Amy’s face. 
From aching eyes he gave her a long intense look 
that was filled with reproach for her and for him¬ 
self. Her eyes in return offered him no defence, no 
regret. They lay in her head like dull green stones, 
apathetic, regardless of time or events that had once 
flicked her into life. 

Miss Brant moved across the room and stopped at 
the foot of the bed. Daniel saw her starched wide 
back at the place where Amy’s eyes had been. He 
turned without speaking and went away on burdened 
feet. 


VI 


The orchestra drummed and blared. The heavy air 
vibrated with syncopated sounds. Twisted threads 
of smoke floated about Daniel’s head. He pressed 
his hands to his temples and tried to think away 
from the broken rhythms of the chorus. 

“Da da-da-da da-da-da.” The girl opposite him 
was singing. Annoyed, he raised his blood-shot 
eyes and looked across the table. “Gee, that’s a swell 
dance,” she said. “Da da-da da-da-da da-da-da.” 

He nodded and brought down his numbed arms 
to the wood. “Sorry I don’t dance.” 

“Well, it don’t interfere with your drinking,” she 
said. “Guess I’ll have a little sip—that is, if there’s 
any left.” 

“Plen—plenty,” said Daniel. “Brought two flasks. 
Here—” He wrapped a napkin about the shining 
silver bottle and held it out. Shaking back the blunt 
black points of her hair, she lifted the flask and 
drank. “Ooo!” She closed her eyes and twisted 
her lips. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Daniel, aggrieved. 
“Don’t you like it? That’s good old stuff.” 

“Needs a chaser,” said the girl and began to 
cough. “Gee, that stuff must be bootleg.” 

“Well, it’s not.” He screwed on the top of the 
flask. “Got it from old friend. Collects prints. 
Old friend of my wife’s.” 

283 


284 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

The girl scowled. “If you begin talking about 
your wife again I’m going home. If you’re so stuck 
on her, why don’t you—” 

Daniel brought down his fist on the table. “Don’t 
you say a word about my wife!” 

“Say, what’s eating you? I don’t know your 
wife.” 

“Well, she’s a fine girl. Best Boston society. She’s 
in hospital now.” 

The girl studied his pale eyes and high forehead 
with interest. “Was you married to her the night 
I was at your house? You know—the night you 
was so hopping mad at me.” 

“No.” He twisted in his chair with uncertain 
straining of legs and shoulders, gazing out over the 
dancing floor. Ugh! Perfume and sweat. Pun¬ 
gent. Sickly-sweet. Syncopation of knees and 
stomachs. They beat together. Hips move in 
measured jerkings. Savages answering call of the 
tom-tom. Roomful of hurdies. Like to spear them 
all. Caudal movements. The little Goya aching to 
get out there and foot the light eccentric toe. 
Damned if I’ll ever make myself a spectacle. Never 
could dance. Uninspired feet. They’ll never get to 
Bankok. Should be unity to feet. Unity in every¬ 
thing— 

A sleek-haired youth with damp skin and wet 
mouth paused at the table. “Dance this ?” 

The girl looked at Daniel. He nodded. She got 
up and went away. 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 285 

Unity in everything. All forms of life. Greek 
character had it in every aspect. Poetry, sculpture, 
philosophy, architecture—everywhere except in home 
life. Greeks had faulty home life. And the princi¬ 
pal thing in life is home life. Take Amy and me. 
Unity except for Sydney. Now I’m probably just 
another cuckholded husband, horns on head like the 
rest. Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe 
never will know if I’m the father of that little gar¬ 
goyle. 

“Say, I’m back.” The girl was in her chair across 
the table. 

“What’s matter ?” 

“Oh, he’s one of these here dirty dancers.” 

Daniel looked at her thin sleeveless dress, tight as 
a glove to the waist. Above it her face, powdered 
white and pink, the full mouth rouged, the eyes black 
and hard. 

“Perhaps he thought you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Huh ! A cheap guy like that! He wouldn’t buy 
a girl a subway ticket.” 

Daniel brought out the flask. “For—fortuitous 
ethics, my dear. Clarify—clarify—” He drank be¬ 
hind the napkin, long golden swallows that gurgled 
and burned. “What’s your name?” 

She wriggled about in her chair. “Aw, it’s terri¬ 
ble. Don’t ask me. Gee, I hate my name.” 

“Pearl? Mabel? Ethel? They’re the worst 
names I know.” 

She reproached him with half-closed eyes. “Now, 


286 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


you’re kidding me. What’s the matter with those 
names? Mine’s Merina.” 

“Merina? That’s a beautiful name. Italian?” 

“Ye-ah. My mother and father’s wops all right. 
I’m American.” 

The orchestra began to play again. Merina moved 
her shoulders and hummed. Daniel watched wasp- 
waisted men and thick-waisted girls walk by on their 
way to the congress. “There goes your dirty 
dancer, Merina.” 

“Aw, him!” 

“Have another li’l drink?” 

“Sure.” 

He passed the flask with an unsteady hand, watch¬ 
ing her soft throat as she drank. Dirty dancing. 
That Algerian girl in Paris. Two veils. Wriggling, 
barefoot. Toes folded under from bad French shoes. 
Dirtiest dancing in history invented by Pyrrhus. 
Around tomb of his father’s intimate. Achilles and 
Patroclus. Dance of indecent postures. Young 
men, armed, many movements. Getting dizzy. Bet¬ 
ter go now. Her face nebulous, whirling like nebu¬ 
lar hypothesis in a glass of whiskey. Let’s get on 
with the peripatetic love. What the hell did I do 
with that hotel address? In wallet. Shelter for 
plebs. Good. I’m a pleb. Amy thinks I’m a pleb. 
Her mother will wonder where the pleb is tonight. 
All right. Let her. Act like a pleb and prove they 
took one into the family. They can put a pleb on 
their crest now. Damn them. Well, I found girl 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


287 


for a poultice. The trigon now a quadrangle. Amy 
and her catamite. The gudgeon and that little 
painted bum. Amy, Amy- 

He made a gesture, awkward, violent, passionate. 
‘‘Come on. Le’s get out of here.” 

“Oh, gee, I ain’t danced more’n twice!” 

“Stay by yourself then. I’m going.” 

He stood up, clutching the back of his chair, sway¬ 
ing over it. Blare. Revolving lights. Heavy shoes 
that pulled down his feet. A hand on his arm. The 
room blue and twisting. Crowds. Thousands of 
figures, busy, blurred. They came at him too fast. 
He dodged. The hand on his arm pulled him back. 
Merina’s voice. “Hit you all of a sudden, didn’t 
it?” Walking among tables that sprung at him and 
fell away. A red-haired girl who stopped to look 
at him. Amy’s hair. No one else had a right to it. 
Amy in hospital and can’t defend her right to red 
hair. There with a baby. Delicate Amy feeding a 
child like a charwoman. Whose child? She liked 
feeding it. For his sake. Husbands keep off. 
Keep off the pillow. Can’t wear horns to bed. Put 
them underneath with the shoes. What’s he saying? 
What check? Hat check. 

“M’rina, got check?” 

“In your pocket, you big boob.” 

“S’what pocket?” 

“Here. Lemme look.” 

Quick fingers fumbling. She’s got wallet 
“Hey, M’rina, give—give-” 



288 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


Cold air biting face and hands. “M’rina, whassa 

that-” Bad booze. Must be bad. Words came 

out wrong. Don’t want this taxi. Want to walk in 
air. Black street. Whizzing lights. Whoop around 
corners. Two wheels. Sleep. Soft shoulder. 
Jounce and trounce. Bad streets. Editorial on bad 
streets. Commissioner get busy. Brakes. Won’t 
move. Off again. Sick. Head and soul. Sleep. 
“Hey, Danny! Wake up.” 

‘ ‘Where—where-’ ’ 

“The hotel. Come on.” 

“Don’t want to. Tired.” 

“All right. Take me uptown again. A lot I 
care!” 

“No. Wait, M’rina.” 

Shadowed lobby. What’s Merina talking about? 
Don’t like that bellboy’s face. Furtive face. Sick 
in head. Must have stopped drinking too soon. 
That’s it. Head clears if you keep on. Some left 
of second quart. Two flasks. Got to be some left. 
“M’rina, le’s have another li’l drink.” 

“Wait till we get upstairs, can’t you?” 

Elevator. Musty smell. Old-fashioned kind. 
Funny red carpets in the halls. They smell like the 
elevator. “Got key, M’rina? Thassa girl. This it? 
Li’l drink, M’rina?” 

“My Gawd, ain’t you had enough ?” 

“Got to clear head, haven’t I ?” 

Bottle faithful. Three drinks. Two for me. 
Girl’s don’t appreciate whiskey. “Drink, M’rina?” 




THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 289 

“Say, but you seem to like my name. Wish I 
hadn’t of told you.” 

“S’lovely name, M’rina. MTina. Poetic. I like 
poetic names. Aimee—Rhoda—S’miramis—Syl¬ 
via—Hildegarde-” 

‘‘Listen at him—for Gawd’s sake.” 

“Leda — Deirdre — Clyte — Phyllis — Chloe — 
Iris—” 

“You ain’t so drunk as you’re crazy. Who ever 
heard of them names ?” 

“Here, M’rina. To your health. Come, drink, 
M’rina—my little poultice.” 

“Oh, you make me tired.” 

Flows down throat like hot light. Enough for 
one more. She’s sulking. Must kiss her. Forget 
everything. Fierce eyes. “Come here, M’rina.” 
Her throat soft. Arms cold. What did I pro¬ 
mise ? Better give it now. Don’t like kissing 
her. Go through with it. “Take off your hat, 
M’rina. No more names. I’ll be good. Come on. 
Nice girl. Danny be good. Come on. Want 
’nother li’l drink?” 



VII 

Sunlight moved slowly across the pillow and 
rested on Daniel’s eyes. He opened them and sat up, 
wincing at the pain that smote the bones of his fore¬ 
head. On the table in the centre of the room he 
saw his hat, collar and two silver flasks. Jagged 
memories of his night pressed into his mind and he 
groaned. He turned and looked at the pillow be¬ 
side him. It was empty. His eyes travelled about 
the dingy red room. He was alone. Merina had 
gone. 

He left the tousled hot bed and found his vest, 
heaped with his coat on a chair. His watch read 
ten o’clock. He filled the wash bowl and bathed, 
throwing cold water over the burning surfaces of his 
body. He dressed and made his way through tainted 
corridors to the bright street. 

Standing on the comer he blinked into the sun and 
purified his lungs. Then he turned to the subway. 
Well, the adventure is over. What did it give me? 
A relief from pain and repression. For once I did 
not feel the necessity to guard, hidden away, my 
natural self. That girl did not think of me as an 
animal. She was not unsure of herself, tender, fra- 
290 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


291 


gile-minded against a hairy intrusion. She de¬ 
manded no delicacies of speech, no felicities of hand- 
kissing, no praise for hesitations. She gave no re¬ 
luctant words, no lovely waiting with a flick of pain 
in it because she could never be wholly disclosed to 
me. There were no mysteries in her femaleness. 
She was plain enough under my eyes and I read her 
without effort. If I did not make an appeal to the 
desire in her that possessed me, at least, through 
collected emotional experiences, she was able to sup¬ 
ply the spark and fan it with breath and eyelids into 
the semblance of a fire by which I was warmed, re¬ 
assured, relaxed. If I missed the exquisite meaning 
which my adoration of Amy always gave such mo¬ 
ments, at least I was free at last to express without 
limitation my other, unused self. Merina spared me 
pain at my inadequacy—but she did not give me a 
purification that even while wounding, lifted me into 
exaltation—as if I were kneeling at the shrine of 
some forgotten pagan goddess. 

The subway wheels began to echo the rhythm of 
his phrase—forgot-ten pa-gan god-dess forgot-ten 
pa-gan god-dess and behind his eyes appeared a wild 
and broken hill with a line of tamarisks, bent by a 
torrid tempest; gray and argent shrubs that marked 
a shrine lonely since two thousand years. At the 
foot of the hill a sigmoidal river signed its signifi¬ 
cant way over the plains of Attica to the sea that had 
washed the city of the Black Venus. Dead drowned 
beauty, beauty that is dust, beauty that is spirit and a 


292 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


memory of the Greek nimbus. Beautiful women of 
Megara, Thessaly, Sparta, faithless in spite of their 
placid faces. Calm beauty, planning corruption and 
impious deeds. In antiquity a child must have been 
wiser than wise to have known its own father. 
What wisdom have I that I should know my child ? 
The unimportance of paternity—except to the father 
concerned. The horned male parent-by-law on his 
way to work for wife and his possible child. 

He leaned back and closed his eyes to the tremb¬ 
ling lights. Why in God’s name did she marry me ? 
Perhaps a way out. Harrington was tied. But after 
all, what she sought in me in the beginning was a 
job. She asked for work and I offered her sex. 
Marriage, yes, and love. But sex. She had her im¬ 
pulse, weak as it was, toward honesty. Circum¬ 
stances I don’t understand led her away from that 
impulse. What happened then? Unable to guess. 
A dark wall without top or gate. I can’t be sure, I 
can’t see truth. Black hair. Two dark grand¬ 
fathers. That’s not enough for condemnation. 
Other evidence is circumstantial. Puppy love, a 
short term, a swoon of weakness. But if she loved 
me she would try to convince. Pride should not 
walk with love. 

The strain of mounting the subway steps recalled 
his throbbing head. He held his hat in his hand and 
crossed the square to his office, bared to sun and a 
light wind. It was too early for the staff. He 
passed through a depopulated city room and closed 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


293 


his office window. Still in his overcoat he sat down 
before his desk. The mail lay in two neat heaps. 
He opened first an envelope marked URGENT. On 
a single sheet of copy paper was written “A tele¬ 
phone message from Newark has come in saying 
your father died last night. Sympathy. Trainer.'' 


VIII 


The shades in the parlor were lowered against 
the night. The shabby furniture, set against the 
walls, seemed to have drawn away from the black 
cloth coffin. It lay ominously along the faded rose¬ 
buds in the centre of the carpet. The flesh of the 
dead man’s face was like dirty wax that had been 
moulded by cunning hands whose ironic fingers had 
missed no truth of line or depression in a resolve to 
depict the indifferent dejection old age feels toward 
death. The hands, gray and rigid, were folded com¬ 
fortably across the top button of Mr. Geer’s Sunday 
suit. Their easy posture gave an air of satisfaction 
to the pose, as if the dead man had considered his 
last gesture well and had chosen this one. 

“He was a good man—a good man.” Andrew 
spoke from his corner and sighed, looking about him 
for confirmation. 

Daniel glanced at his brother-in-law’s sad red 
face. He cleared his throat and stood up, cramped 
in the knees. He meant that for me. I’m the only 
one who has failed in dull spoken epitaphs. A good 
man. There he lies, dominating his family in death 
as he would have wished to rule them in life. He 
has come into his brief supremacy too late. Wonder 


294 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


295 

if I might go out and smoke without being called 
heartless. Better wait until they go to bed. 

“The Lord let him live to a ripe old age. We 
must remember that and be thankful,” said Ruth. 
She bent over to her mother and laid a hand in the 
stiff black lap at her side. 

Mrs. Geer nodded slowly. Her lower lip oscillated 
as if set on a spring. Her inflamed eyelids closed 
and squeezed out tears that rolled down and spread 
on the flabbiness of her cheeks. She began to sob, 
rocking from side to side in her straight-backed 
chair. The knot of hair on the top of her head came 
loose and, moving, revealed a pink patch of scalp. 
She put up her fingers, gnarled and chapped, to cover 
her face. She sobbed, “Oh, what’ll become of me 
now your poor pa’s gone!” 

No one spoke. Andrew sighed again, glanced at 
Daniel and uncrossed his thick legs. He thrust his 
hands into his trouser pockets and sprawled out on 
his chair, staring down at the faded roses of the 
carpet. Ruth, her black arms folded non-commit¬ 
tally across her stomach, supplied his sigh with a 
faint late echo and fastened her gaze to the curled- 
up toes of her shoes. 

Daniel got up and crossed the room, passing the 
sightless face of wax. He bent down and put his 
arm about his mother’s shoulders. “Why mother, 
you know I’ll always take care of you,” he said. 

She inclined her body toward him and touched 
his arm with her white old head. “Yes, 


296 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

Danny, you’re a good boy.” She choked and began 
to rock in a fresh attack of grief. “Your poor pa! 
I’m all alone—all alone! Perhaps he can see—and 
judge!” 

Daniel’s eyes sought his sister’s quiet obstinate 
face. “What’s worrying mother?” he asked. 
“What is she talking about ?” 

Ruth pressed her lips together. She glanced at 
her husband and stared again at her shoes. Andrew 
shifted his heaviness in his chair. With a preoc¬ 
cupied frown he squinted at a dim pink rose. 

Against this pact of silence Daniel raised his voice. 
“What’s all this about? Won’t anybody tell me?” 
He waited, blinking at his mother while she sobbed 
on into the still room. Then he returned to his chair. 
Not the time to investigate a family quarrel. Let it 
wait until the poor lost ego is under ground. Wish 
they’d let me have him decently cremated. Wonder 
how mother would take it. Probably has a preju¬ 
dice. 

Mrs. Geer brought down her hands and fumbled 
in her lap with slowly moving knotted fingers. The 
silk of her dress made a hissing sound under the 
search of rough skin. She drew her breath in sharp 
spasms and sent it forth in a rhythmic series of woe¬ 
ful sounds. 

“Do you want a handkerchief, mother?” Daniel 
drew a large square of linen from his pocket and 
started up from his chair. 

She raised bleared red eyes, calmer already under 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


297 


the necessity of speech. The tragic lines of her 
face fell into those of commonplace hopelessness. 
“No, Dan. I’ll just go get one of my new ones with 
black borders. It’s more fitting.” She pulled her¬ 
self up heavily and straightened her knees. She 
seemed trying not to accept her new importance as 
the relict and central figure of this domestic tragedy 
from fear that any self-assertion might yet be re¬ 
buked from the tyrant in his coffin. 

Ruth clutched at her elbow. “Here, ma. Mine’s 
got black.” She poked a handkerchief into her 
mother’s fingers and pulled her back into her chair. 
Mrs. Geer blew her nose with restraint and dropped 
her hands into her lap. The room was silent once 
more while four stared at the dead. 

To Daniel’s tired eyes the coffin seemed to have 
grown larger, more impressive, since he had come 
into the room. It’s fatality was pushing toward him 
and would touch him if he waited there. He 
shuddered and looked away to the marble clock on 
the mantel. “You’d better go to bed, mother. It’s 
nearly midnight.” 

Her eyelids wrinkled up and she looked at him 
dully. “No. I guess I’ll sit up a while yet with your 
pa.” Her look returned to the coffin, touching it 
with pride and affection shining through her grief. 
“I’m glad he’s got such a nice coffin.” She glanced 
back at Daniel and then her eyes roved on to the wall 
and fixed themselves upon the old charcoal portrait, 
its shirt front labelled, James G. Geer, March 1872. 


298 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

That was the year she had met him—a fierce young 
man with fanatical eyebrows and a cold set mouth 
such as preachers gain after years of recalling their 
God to the heedless and unwilling. 

Daniel could not turn his eyes away from the 
coffin. As long as I remain in the room I must 
think of nothing else. The first funeral I haven’t 
been able to avoid. The first time I have mused be¬ 
fore death. Thanatopsis. With what elaborate for¬ 
mulae the ancients mourned and took leave of their 
dead! Dancing about funeral pyres. Corteges 
across water. Obsequies of embalming and wrap¬ 
ping. Father’s last hours above ground ignored by 
ceremonies. He had no viatic draught, no priests 
in black and gold to chant and asperse his abject 
corpse with holy water. He would have hated highly 
colored comfort from Rome. He called it dirty 
papery. That time mother went to see St. Patrick’s. 
He raged while she told of incense and pretty 
candles. Religion needs picturesque pomp and mes- 
merics, I told him. Another rage. The Russian 
burial service has beautiful words. “I weep and I 
wail when I think about death and behold our beauty 
lying in the tomb disfigured and bereft of form. . . . 
When we have acquired the world, then do we take 
up our abode in the grave where kings and beggars 
lie down together.” The sadness of the grave. 
Soon I, too, shall have a narrow house. And Amy’s 
bright gold and milk white will decay between boards 
that are wrapped in lead. I’ll offer no cock to iEscu- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


299 


lapius for my release and I dare say Socrates would 
have been willing to recall his beau geste for another 
year of life. Being shut away into the earth is half 
the terror I feel of death. I’d rather lie in a museum 
where there is light and the sounds of feet and 
voices. My nerves on edge from debauch and bas¬ 
tardy. Dying can’t be so terrible as its anticipation. 
Many, dragged back just in time, have described a 
pleasant sensation—a gentle sinking into nothing¬ 
ness. The agony of severance is perhaps only tra¬ 
ditional and the horror of bloat and grave worms 
torments us only in life. Anyway, silly old age is 
worse than a more genuine dissolution. “Age and 
age’s evils, hoar hair, ruck and wrinkle, drooping, 
dying, death’s worst, tombs and worms and tumbling 
to decay.” The Parsees make sure of cheating the 
worms. Their dead lie on towers of silence where 
birds polish the bones and spare the earth pollution. 
The Ichthyophagi threw their corpses into the sea, 
a gift to fishes which later they caught in their nets. 
Cremation the only thing. That’s clean. No wind¬ 
ing sheets or spiced mummies. Pure fire for the 
stiff and insensible. 

“Mother.” He spoke abruptly and the three 
dreaming faces before him lifted quickened eyes. “I 
would like to have father cremated. Have you any 
objection ?” 

Mrs. Geer stared at him. Her thin eyebrows 
raised themselves as if to get away quickly from the 
shocked incredulity of the face beneath. Her lips 


300 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


moved, signifying their obedience to form dismayed 
words whenever they might be ready to falter forth 
unbelieving protest. She sat forward in her chair, 
her cheeks quivering. “Why—why —what an idea! 
How can you, Dan? Oh, I could never give your 
poor pa’s body to the flames!” Querulous and of¬ 
fended, she turned her head and looked at Ruth, 
searching for supporting indignation. 

“Now, mother, that’s only sentimentality. I as¬ 
sure you, it’s the decent, clean way. I shouldn’t 
think you’d want the picture before you of flesh rot¬ 
ting in a grave.” 

Andrew jumped up from his chair and stepped to 
Mrs. Geer’s side. His red face overhung her white 
grief. “Say, Dan, that’s a fine thing to say to ma at 
a time like this!” 

Daniel gave him a contemptuous and insulting 
look. “I’m not speaking to you.” In the sweep of 
his glance he caught Ruth’s open shocked eyes. The 
accusing faces set against him demanded an acquittal 
of reason. His taut nerves tightened again 
throughout his body. “Listen, mother. Cremation 
is not only an old practice but a highly honored one. 
It dates back to Homer, Hector and Remus. Saul, 
too, from your Bible, was cremated. The ancients 
all thought fire a purifying virtue. The Indian 
Brahmans even burnt themselves alive, thinking it 
the noblest manner of ending their days.” 

“Huh!” said Andrew. “He’s off again. Has to 
show off in his pa’s last hours in the house.” Moving 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


301 


closer to Mrs. Geer, he clapped a protective red hand 
on her shoulder and turned his blustering face to 
Daniel. 

Daniel got out of his chair with deliberation. 
“I’m addressing my mother, Andrew. Please keep 
out of family matters that do not concern you.” 

“Andy, sit down,” said Ruth in a whisper. 

“Well, I like that! The gall of him! As if I 
ain’t one of the family! See here, Dan, it don’t make 


Ruth reached forward and jerked him backward 
by the coat. “Sit down,” she said sharply. “You 
boys can’t have an argument now.” 

Mrs. Geer’s flaccid mouth was hanging open, limp 
with her bewilderment. Her eyes darted in terrified 
anticipation from Daniel to Andrew and back to 
Daniel until Andrew dropped out of her range, 
growling as he settled himself again in his chair. 

“Well, mother?” demanded Daniel. 

She waved a hand in weak rejection. “It ain’t 
Christian. Your pa wouldn’t have liked it, Dan. 
As if we was trying to get rid of buying him a nice 
plot and a marble headstone!” 

Andrew was muttering into Ruth’s ear. “—and 
a fine time to pick a fight with ma but he—” 

Daniel glanced at the thick shaved neck with its 
bristles lying in wait under the skin. His resent¬ 
ment of Andrew’s vulgar person made a bitter burn¬ 
ing in his breast and mounted up to choke him. He 
moved toward his mother. She was weeping weakly 



2)02 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


and her distorted mouth was like an unhealthy 
bloodless wound. “All right, mother,” he said gently 
and laid his hand on her head. “I’m sorry if I’ve 
made an unpleasant suggestion. You may pick out 
the handsomest headstone in town for father’s 
grave and send the bill to me.” 

“Thank you, Danny.” 

He went back to his chair. Ought to have dropped 
it at once. After all, what does it matter? Mould 
or ashes are the same once the machinery stops. 
“Who knows the fate of his bones or how often 
they are to be buried?” Even the privacy of isola¬ 
tion is not assured. The commercial shovel, con¬ 
verting cemeteries into building lots, tosses the pious 
bones of the Reverend Dr. Harangue on a heap with 
the fossil remains of neighborhood sinners. Better 
to lie like Chateaubriand, lonely and uninscribed, at 
the top of a Brittany cliff. 

Mrs. Geer wiped her eyes and stood up before 
her chair. The gray loose knot of her hair fell 
forward on her forehead. With shoulders bent and 
arms hanging like stiff broken branches, she walked 
heavily to the coffin and stood gazing down at the 
mask of flesh. She lifted her hand and placed 
fingers like knotty twigs upon skin that had already 
settled itself in a faultless adjustment to the skull. 
Raising her fingers, she let them fall and lifted them 
again, patting, patting in tenderness. She began to 
speak, bending over the edge of the coffin. “Forty 
years, Jim, forty years. Alone now. They don’t 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 303 

want me. Forty years—” She turned with forced 
angular movements and went from the room, hunch¬ 
ed forward in an ungiven slouch, her wide black 
skirt touching the floor and rebounding at each 
stiff planting of her feet. 

Daniel waited until he heard the closing of a door 
before he spoke. “Ruth what did mother mean? 
What’s all this about father seeing and judging?” 

Ruth lifted her head, her eyes hardening between 
their lids. “Now, Dan, you know we haven’t room 
for mother!” 

“But of course not. I’m going to keep this place 
for her.” 

Ruth threw her husband an impelling signal. “She 
won’t stay here alone. She wanted to come live 
with us.” 

With an unexpected vehement cordiality, Andrew 
burst into speech. “Dan, I’ve been thinking things 
over. Maybe you’d want to take a bigger apartment 
for ma and have Ruthie and me live there and 
sort of look after her. That way we could take 
her off your hands.” He watched Daniel’s face 
with sharp eyes, a forced smile on his heavy wide 
mouth. 

Daniel regarded him coldly. “That’s a great idea 
—for you. Nothing doing. I have enough rent to 
pay already.” 

Andrew’s smile died. He pulled down the corners 
of his mouth. “You’re a hell of a fine son,” he said. 
“Living in style in New York with that swell wife 


304 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


of yours and leaving your poor old mother alone 
in this dirty little flat!” 

“Andy!” Ruth hurried to his side and shook his 
arm. “You and Dan can’t fight in here with pa 
lying there dead!” 

“Then come outside,” said Andrew. He threw 
back his head and snorted through flaring nostrils. 
“I’ve held in as long as I can. There’s some people 
that get my goat till I don’t know what I’m doing.” 
He sent Daniel a glance of bitterness and hatred. 
“Come on, Ruthie. I’m going to the kitchen and 
get a piece of pie and a cup of cawffee.” He stalked 
across the carpet and through the door. 

Ruth took an uncertain step and paused. She 
looked at Daniel, standing white and contemptuous 
by his chair. “It’s too bad you and Andy don’t get 
along. It always makes him mad when you act as 
if you despised him.” 

Daniel gave a short laugh. “I do. That’s the 
word. Despise.” He saw her wince and wilt in her 
black dress. “Sorry, Ruth. You and I used to 
have affection for each other. Since you married 
him you’ve changed.” 

“Don’t you think you’ve changed, too?” cried 
his sister. “You’re worse than ever since you went 
away to New York. Now you’re so stuck up that 
you take everybody’s head off for nothing. Any- 
body’d think you were the Lord Almighty to see the 
airs you put on since you married that society 
queen!” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


305 


With a pain at his heart he saw the rancor that 
ate at her and bowed his head before her wounded 
loyalty to Andrew. “I’m sorry, Ruth.” 

“Yes, you are!” 

He heard her go from the room and walk down 
the hall. So that’s how they see me! Withholding 
myself from them through conceit, holy in my 
superiority. It always seems true to the family 
that’s left behind. Only mother feels faint pride in 
me. Father sneered because I had gone beyond him. 
I’m glad my suffering is unknown. They would 
take part payment from it for their grievances and 
watch eagerly until I could pay again. Poor mother, 
waiting mustily for the end, so resigned to her life 
under tyranny that she now mourns her new 
freedom. 

He walked to the coffin and looked into it. Blind, 
deaf, dumb. The cells that recorded his life cycle 
are already melting. Blue at the corners of the eyes 
and mouth. Under the finger nails, too. Process 
of decay working below the undertaker’s powder. 
Nostrils pinched in. All the horrors of the grave 
foreshadowed here. A sickly sweet odor seems to 
emanate from the coffin. Imaginary. Probably 
those white flowers. Hope my nerves hold out 
until after tomorrow. Funerals are a horrible heri¬ 
tage from savagery. We hold to them because 
death is so bound with superstition. The human 
race tireless in its search for a meaning. What is 
life, they ask, and what is death? Well, questioning 


306 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


is activity. That’s better than coma. Nothing in 
teleology for me. What final cause could there be? 
All purposeless and mechanical. That old man in 
the library who spent forty years on a ten volume 
treatise to prove the purposiveness in nature only 
proved his own. 

Mrs. Geer’s dragging step came down the hall. 
Daniel turned to the door and watched her come 
toward him on legs as stiff as stilts. “They’re 
having a bite in the kitchen,” she announced. She 
laid her deformed old hand on the coffin as she 
would have rested it on the living shoulder of her 
husband. “It’s a nice casket, ain’t it, Dan ? I think 
your pa would have liked it.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Danny, the day before he died—he knew. 
He sat and looked out the window there and 
I read him the Twenty-Third Psalm. He liked that 
one best.” 

He took her hand from the coffin and pressed it 
between his cold palms. “Yes, mother. It’s very 
beautiful.” 

“The last day he asked for you. Ruthie telephoned 
all afternoon but you was out. He wanted to thank 
you for what you’ve done for us.” 

“I haven’t done much. I wish it had been more.” 

“You was always a good boy. The rent came 
regular and something extra nearly always.” She 
looked up at him with drained old affection. “I 
hope you come real often to see me now your pa’s 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


307 


gone.” Her chin began to tremble. “Oh, it’ll be 
terrible here all alone! I’ll see him sitting there 'by 
his window—” 

Daniel seized both her hands and drew her to 
him. Putting an arm about her, he held her firmly, 
seeing over her shoulder the face in the coffin. 
“You’re not going to live here alone. You’re coming 
to New York to live with me. Amy and I need you 
to help with the baby.” 

She pressed her head closer into his shoulder. 
“Oh, I couldn’t do that! You’re too stylish for me. 
I ain’t used to it. I’d better stay here where I can see 
Ruthie real often.” Her voice was tremulous, 
hoping for and fearing a defeat. 

“But mother you must! Amy knows nothing about 
babies. She needs your help.” 

She drew away and searched his face for lies. 
“She wants me to come? Are you sure, Danny?” 

“Of course, mother.” He reassured her with a 
smile and a little shake. 

“Well—I don’t know. Of course I know a lot 
about babies—maybe I could—” Her fingers 
pushed themselves up his coat like broken sticks. 
“I guess I ought to ask Ruthie first. She might 
feel hurt if I moved away so far.” Looking into his 
grave face, she sent him up a pale withered smile. 
Excited blood burned in two little patches on her 
cheeks. “Oh, Danny, Danny! I wish your pa 
could have knowed I was going to live with you 
and your wife! He was always worrying about me. 


3 o8 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

He tried to be good to me, Dan. I ain’t got no 
complaints.” Almost in triumph she turned to the 
coffin. “See here.” She bent over and slipped her 
hand into a pocket of the black Sunday suit. “Look.” 
She brought out three pictures and laid them into his 
hand. “He asked for my picture to be buried with 
him. That one he liked with feathers in my hat. 
I thought it would be nice to put in you children’s 
with mine. That’s Ruthie when she was fourteen— 
and your first baby picture.” 

Daniel lifted the worn pasteboard to his eyes. 
“My picture— that?” he exclaimed. “Now, mother, 
I could never have looked like that.” 

“Well, you did,” said Mrs. Geer. “You wasn’t 
a pretty baby but you was cute. You had a bright 
little face and you began to notice things from the 
time you was six months old.” She drew the 
pictures from his fingers and bent down to the dead 
man’s pocket. “Your pa’s baby pictures looked just 
like yours. And I was the living image of my 
mother’s baby pictures. Sometimes they look more 
like their fathers and mothers when they’re babies 
than after they grow up.” 

Daniel’s eyes watched her face with sharp intent¬ 
ness. “Really? I never knew that. Mother, did 
father have dark hair when he was born?” 

Mrs. Geer wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know 
as I ever heard him say. But it was black and shiny 
when he began courting me.” She sighed and 
looked into the coffin. “He was always troubled, 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


309 


Dan, that you wasn’t a good Christian. Many’s 
the time he’s said prayers for your change of heart. 
But you never—Danny. Say a prayer with me now 
before he’s laid away. Will you, sonny? Just to 
please your ma?” 

He retreated from her anxious old eyes. “Why, 
mother, I—” 

Her lips puckered. “Please, Danny.” 

He turned to the coffin and blinked at the clay 
face, seeing how the stern heavy brows were drawn 
apart at last in peace. He bowed his head under 
his mother’s pleading face and held her fingers in 
a clasp of comfort. He said in a low voice, “ De - 
bemur morti nos nostraque. There mother. That’s 
the only prayer I know for the dead.” 

She patted his hand and he felt the smooth hard 
surface of her wedding ring tap on his knuckles. 
“Thank you. He would be pleased.” 

Smiling, he bent and kissed her cheek. “Go to 
bed and sleep a few hours. I’ll stay here and watch 
for you.” 

“Well, maybe I’d better. I’m worn out with 
taking care of him. Ruthie and Andy will come and 
sit with you. Want a piece of pie and some hot 
coffee, Danny?” 

“No. Goodnight, mother.” 

She kissed him, lingering and patting in the 
only activity of tenderness she knew. 

He walked with her to the door and watched her 
down the hall. Listening, he heard voices from 


310 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

the kitchen, long rumbles that were Andrew's and 
the complaining treble of his sister. 

He returned to the coffin with swift steps. Breath¬ 
ing quickly, he bent and in a copy of his mother’s 
gesture slipped his hand into the flat pocket. The 
body beneath the cloth felt like a board. Shiver¬ 
ing, he drew out three pictures and returned two 
to their post over the quiet heart. Then he walked 
back to his chair and sat down to his vigil. 


IX 


The thin coughing cry rose to a wail. Amy 
and Mrs. Geer looked at each other across the table. 
“Oh, dear!” said Amy. She pushed her chair back 
and stood up, tall and narrow-hipped, swathed in 
yellow silk. “Will you save me some coffee, 
Daniel ?” 

‘Til send it out and we’ll have it when you come 
back.” 

“Will you? Sorry to have you wait.” 

From across the table Mrs. Geer watched Amy 
as she walked, graceful and swaying, to the door. 
“Well, the baby waited,” she called at her long 
yellow back. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.” 

“We’re late tonight,” said Daniel. “Mary was 
delayed by the storm. I think it’s going to be the 
big blizzard of the winter, mother. The snow has 
been tumbling like feathers ever since you got back 
from church.” 

“Has it?” Her eyes were still on the door. “I 
didn’t take notice.” She tilted her head, listening. 
“That’s funny. She’s still crying. I wonder—” 

“We may be snowed in tomorrow, though that 
doesn’t happen any more. I remember you and 
311 


312 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

father telling me about that blizzard of the Eighties 
_>> 

“I don’t think that child can be well,” said Mrs. 
Geer. She lifted her hands from her lap and pressed 
them against the table. Her chair slid back and she 
bent forward in an awkward shifting of her weight. 
“Fd better go in, I guess, and see—” 

His eyes followed the lumpy black figure. Frown¬ 
ing, he listened to the sounds in the apartment, 
separating from them those that Amy might be 
making in her room across the hall. A swinging 
door swished open and shut. Mary was coming 
from the kitchen. His mother was speaking in a 
voice that held the querulous quality of age. A 
weak wail of hunger. Slight broken sounds—Amy 
moving, silk-wrapped and perfumed, between her 
dresser and the bassinette. 

He sent Mary back with the coffee and lit a 
cigarette. This place revolves around the child. A 
baby matriarchy set up in my home. Mother is as 
fanatical as Amy. I could have spared myself 
worrying how they would get on together. The 
bond of a baby stronger on women than that of 
marriage or friendship. I might be a bachelor 
uncle here for all the intimacy they feel with me. 
I’m a tolerated provider, watching an orgy of primi¬ 
tive animal instincts. Two months of being politely 
ignored and held outside their interests. They don’t 
even listen when I talk in their impatience to leave 
me for another peep into that ridiculous rubber- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


313 


wheeled cradle. Two women living in a bassinette 
with a baby. Fantastic life for maturity to choose. 
Women ought to drop their grudge against men and 
blame nature for their narrow spheres. Yet that’s 
hardly fair. Mrs. Stowe and George Sand wrote 
their books with children clamoring from every 
corner. I must get Amy alone tonight and talk 
to her. She can’t go on indefinitely, pretending not 
to notice my pose of polite host. Was mother’s 
relation to father as casual and cold as the one she 
observes here? At any rate, she shared his room. 
Modern marriages can’t always be like this. I’ll be 
damned if I’ll give up my life as a husband and con¬ 
tent myself with the post of observer to maternity. 
No. I’ll get out first. I’d rather live in my shabby 
bachelor apartment and drug myself on books. 
Nothing here is right and I am wretched. Would 
1 be happy if I were certain about the baby? I 
don’t know. My instinct toward fatherhood is un¬ 
awakened. At best, it’s a cultivated instinct, having 
been encouraged to develop by the demands of civili¬ 
zation. If only I could be sure I might feel a 
protective tenderness toward a baby that shares 
flesh and gender with Amy. How do other men 
feel? Bob, for instance. I must find out his 
experiences with paternity. Surely it’s a personal 
reaction with men, differing in each case. Women 
yearn over any baby but you never see men stopping 
to croon and babble into a strange perambulator. 
They’re interested only in the one that’s parked in 


314 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


their own hallway. I might receive an enlarging 
emotional experience if I knew that baby was a 
mingling of Amy and me. I’d be moved for her 
sake at least. 

Mrs. Geer appeared in the door. “She’s fretting 
some,” she said, worried lines deepening on her 
forehead. “She don’t seem real strong for her age. 
I s’pose that’s maybe because she was a seven months 
child. They’re not so strong at first.” 

“Is she smaller than most babies ?” asked Daniel. 
“Come in and sit by me while I smoke.” 

“Oh, yes, she’s real little.” Mrs. Geer returned to 
her chair and folded her hands across her abdomen. 
Her black dress pulled tightly over the bones of her 
corset and reflected the light that fell from the 
saffron-colored lamp above their heads. “She 
only weighed six pounds when she was born. You 
was a nine pounder and Ruthie eight and a half.” 

He bent toward her with a flare of interest. 
“Mother, don’t normal babies sometimes weigh 
very little? I mean—it wouldn’t have been un¬ 
usual if Ruth had weighed six pounds?” 

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Geer vaguely. “It all depends. 
Some do and some don’t.” 

He threw himself back in an impatient stretching 
of muscles. Always generalizations! Can’t pin 
anyone down. You’d think babies would be a 
subject women would inform themselves about since 
it’s their principal job. But, no. “Some do and 
some don’t.” A fine answer to a scientific question! 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


315 


If we depended on the evidence of women, no man 
would know when he had been betrayed. Not that 
they’d tell if they could. Their morality not to be 
relied on. They never have an ethical standpoint. 
Slave morality. They live by that. Worse than 
not having any at all, like most men. Amy would 
never admit to peccancy. For all her plastic softness 
she has a streak of steel in her that will never bend 
in confession. And if she is innocent? 

He sighed, his breath catching in his throat. Mrs. 
Geer removed her gaze from the lancinated arc of 
saffron and peered at him. “Worrying about some¬ 
thing, Dan?” 

“No. Just tired.” 

“I don’t see how that can be,” she said with 
maternal tartness. “You lay abed till noon today.” 

“Oh, well, mother. It’s the day of rest, you know.” 

“Not for Amy and me. We was up at six 
o’clock with the baby.” 

“Then you’d both better go to bed now. I’ll turn 
in, too, and read. But I want to talk to Amy first.” 

“Maybe she’d forget about the coffee if we don’t 
sit here. She oughtn’t to drink it if she’s going 
right to bed.” She arose with the alert look of a 
person who enjoys the importance of life’s minutiae. 

“All right, mother.” He went to switch off the 
lights. The curtains were apart and through them 
he saw the warm comfort of the drawing room. 
We’ll talk in there. Far away from mother’s door 
in case she leaves it ajar. 


3 i6 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

“Daniel, where’s your mother?” Amy came to 
the door of the dark room, looking across the black¬ 
ness to the parted curtains. 

“In the kitchen.” She in her bright aperture 
and I in mine. Darkness between us like a symbolic 
wall. “Is the baby asleep?” 

“I hope so.” She started away. 

“Amy!” 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t go. I want to talk to you.” 

“Well—I have to see your mother first.” 

“I wish you’d consider me first sometimes.” 

She called back from down the hall. “What? 
I didn’t hear.” 

“Nothing. Never mind.” He crossed the dining 
room to the hall and saw her, unconcerned and un¬ 
dulating, walking in bright yellow through the 
swinging door. He began to stride up and down 
before the three bedrooms. In Amy’s a night lamp 
was burning, golden and dim, on her dressing table. 
He stopped on the threshold, blinking across the 
room at a little dome of sheltering lace by her bed. 
With muscular stealth he made his way to it noise¬ 
lessly and stood poised on his toes like a thief. A 
doll of flesh and blood. My flesh? My blood? I 
don’t know. 

He turned his head away and listened to the 
effusion of voices, smothered by distance and a 
door. Then with a quick movement he twitched the 
metal cord of the shaded wall light above the bas- 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


317 


sinette. A soft pink glow spread over the baby’s 
sleeping face. His nervous hand fumbled for his 
wallet and he brought from an inner compartment 
a small faded photograph of a baby, lying naked 
and belly down on a fur rug, its face lifted in vacant 
surprise. The rug was written over in dim sloping 
writing—Daniel Boone Geer, April 17, 1890, aged 
2 mos. Bending, he laid the picture on the pillow 
by the baby’s head. Now, then, what have these 
two in common? Creases, dimples, rolls of fat, a 
blob for a nose. The hands? Mine were broad and 
fat. These are already like Amy’s little pink petals. 
And that black, black hair. Black as hell. Sydney’s 
hair. Two dark grandfathers not so black as Syd¬ 
ney’s hair. 

The baby stirred and gasped. It opened its eyes 
on Daniel and stared up out of irises of opaque 
blue in a protracted intent gaze that questioned and 
resented the face bent over its lacy privacy. It closed 
the pentad of its fingers into a bud. It opened its 
mouth in a protesting red circle and blew out a 
bubble. 

Daniel felt his heart beat in jerks as he returned 
the stare. Blue eyes met blue eyes. His blood rocked 
in his veins. Eyes like mine! Accident or heritage ? 
Why can’t instinct inform me? Do I feel a bond? 
She doesn’t like me. She’s as affronted by my 
presence as I by hers. Even she was born with a 
grudge against me. Amy often looks at me like 
that. Same disapproval and dislike. No one cares 


318 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

for me. Perhaps Elliot. And mother. Yet mother 
loves Amy and Andrew as much as her own children. 
Weak affection for us all. No one sees that I suffer 
a loneliness that is devastating. No connection with 
any human being. This little new one like the rest. 
Perhaps if she were used to me she might smile. 
They crow and gurgle sometimes. 

The baby’s fingers unclosed. Daniel watched the 
curling morsels of flesh. Slowly and with trepida¬ 
tion he put out his hand and slipped his forefinger 
into the palm, a warm folded rose-leaf. At his 
touch the baby’s eyes rolled up and its face turned 
crimson. It sucked air into its lungs and sent out a 
thin penetrating wail. 

“Hell!” said Daniel. He snatched up the picture 
from the pillow and put it into his pocket. Turning, 
he jerked out the light. Before he could gain the 
door he heard the tap of Amy’s heels outside. 

“Daniel! What are you doing in here?” 

He hesitated before her dressing table. “I 
thought I’d put out this light,” he said. 

“Well, I wish you hadn’t come in. You waked 
up the baby.” 

She went to the basinette and he saw her in the 
shadows, bending in a dim yellow arc over her child. 
He went to her side and stood in awkward silence, 
his hands deep in his pockets. His fingers slid over 
his keys and he pulled them out and jingled them 
over the bassinette. “Here. Let her play with 
these.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


319 


“No, Daniel. She’s too little.” 

“Oh. Well, then, let me walk with her.” 

“No. Waking and rocking are not allowed. She 
must learn to go to sleep without excitement. Es¬ 
pecially as the doctor says she’s a very nervous 
child.” 

“Come to my room, Amy. I must talk to you.” 
He put both arms about her and locked his hands on 
her shoulder. He pressed his face into her loose red 
hair, savoring its heavy perfume. “How sweet 
you are! Do you know how long it’s been since you 
let me kiss you?” He closed his eyes, feeling her 
hair like feathers of silk against his lids. 

She put up her hands to unlock his fingers from 
her shoulder. “Daniel, I must get the baby quiet. 
Please—you know it’s bad for her to cry like this.” 
Her face in the dimness was soft and pleading. 

He caught her hand, feeling the great scarab ring 
under his fingers. “Always the baby, the baby! 
Never a thought for me. I’ve suffered hell—you 
don’t know. The things I’ve done—I must tell 
you what you’ve driven me to—because I thought 
—oh, I don’t think so now! I won’t let myself—but 
you didn’t try to convince me. Why didn’t you? 
Oh, I know why. You don’t love me. If you had 
—You never loved me, Amy. My God, why should 
you? I’m a dub. That’s all I am. A pleb, a 
vulgar pleb. Oh, a good enough newspaper man to 
hold down my job. But not the man for you. I 
don’t know Latin poetry or Gothic—or Chinese 


320 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


ceramics. Maybe later on I could learn—when we 
go abroad. Do you want to go to Europe with me 
darling? I might manage—in the late spring—” 

“Daniel—I—” Her anxious green eyes slipped 
from him to the baby. She leaned over the basinette 
and laid her hand on the baby’s cheek. Doubt made 
little shadings in her forehead. “I think she has a 
fever. I want to stay with her till she falls asleep. 
Then I’ll come in, Daniel.” She smiled emptily, 
appeasingly, and dried her hand, wet with the baby’s 
tears, on a handkerchief of black chiffon edged with 
lace. 

He caught her about the shoulders and bent her 
head back. “No! You always put me off. You 
starve me. You treat me abominably. I won’t stand 
it!” Trembling he kissed her unwilling mouth, the 
hunger of months mounting in him, heedless of her 
resistance and the plaints of the child. 

Amy freed her mouth. “Oh, Daniel, please, 
please! I’m so terrified about the baby! Let me 
go now and I’ll come in later. Really I will. I 
promise, Daniel!” 

Denied again, his throbbing arms fell to his sides. 
“Always excuses! You’ve humiliated me for the 
last time, Amy!” 

She threw out her hand toward him. “Daniel!” 

“I mean it. I’ll never ask you again.” Turning, 
his sleeve brushed against the arm she still extended 
and the cloth caught and pulled loose something that 
clung to his sleeve like the skeleton of a little snake. 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 321 

“You’ve broken my bracelet. Wait—it’s on your 
sleeve.” 

He did not answer her but strode out quickly 
and entered his own room. He slammed the door 
shut and snapped on the lights. Blinking out the 
angry tears, he plucked her bracelet from his arm 
and flung it down on the Mexican rug. “Atlantic 
City. Damn the place,” he muttered. “Damn her. 
Damn everything.” He pulled out his handkerchief 
and blew his nose, glaring down at the red and 
black design of the rug that framed the curling 
bracelet. 

Someone knocked. He said savagely, “What do 
you want ?” 

“It’s me, Danny. Goodnight, dear.” 

“Oh. Goodnight, mother.” 

He began to undress, removing his clothes with 
studied deliberation. He fitted his coat to the back 
of a chair in an abstract reversion to Newark 
custom. Drawing off his trousers, he shook them 
and laid them, empty legs flat together, across the 
seat of the chair. His slippers were under the bed 
which had been opened for him, the silk cover drawn 
back in an invitation to repose. He snatched them 
out and dropped his underwear to the floor. Then 
pulling off his socks, he marched across the room on 
bare soles to the long mirror that fitted into the 
dark wood of the closet door. Why doesn’t she 
care for me ? Why am I inadequate ? 

From front, back and sides he studied his nudity, 


322 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

turning in exploration, examining minutely each 
plane and hillock of flesh and hair. Square 
shoulders, a trumped-up chest, a fleshy abdomen like 
a bishop’s. No material here for a statue. Grisley 
arms, too thin above the elbow. Prominent 
shoulder blades. Knees that just escape knocking 
together. Hair even on my toes. No wonder she 
shrinks from this pink suit. The china collector’s 
slim waist and long legs more to her liking. She’s 
had a rotten deal artistically. Brought up on stand¬ 
ards of Greek statuary, she shudders away from 
the gross reality. Dreaming of a modern Apollo, 
she was confronted by hirsute deformity. My God, 
I’m repulsive. Never thought of it before. No 
wonder she makes excuses. I’m just a hideous 
hairy male, desirous of soft beauty I can’t match 
or deserve. I’ve bought her. In blindness she 
accepted me according to the custom of civilization. 
Few women get a handsome keeper. Only the 
glamor of a great spiritual love could make a woman 
forget that odious image before me. Would Elliot? 
Probably. The meaning of aesthetics unknown to 
her primitive simplicity. Lucky for men that most 
women don’t hold up the statuary standard. The 
practical ideal of kind heart and good provider 
makes for happier homes. Made in a divine image, 
am I? Nothing proves the fantastic ego of man 
more than that tenet of faith. Well, the reflection is 
no less ugly from long contemplation. Yet it’s 
the only piece of property I own in the world. No 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


323 


man can really own anything but his suit of flesh. 
I wish mine had grown on me black and in Africa. 

He went to the bed and unfolded his pyjamas. A 
scientist would scorn my point of view and relegate 
all desire for physical beauty to the province of 
useless art. If I were a scientist I’d think of my 
body only as a collection of particles of negative 
electricity in motion. I would be reflecting that if 
they had fallen into another rate of speed I would 
now be a tree, a rock or smoke from a tea-kettle. 

A section of a Sunday newspaper lay, still unread 
on the table. He carried it to the bed, opened it 
and turned on the reading lamp. His lips curled in 
distaste at the society page. Then two dark eyes of 
ink met his. Sydney’s face with its delicate nose 
and classic lips. He read with one short sweep of 
his eyes, “Mr. Sydney Harrington, the well-known 
antiquarian, returned from Europe yesterday on 
the Mauretania, accompanied by-” 

He stared at the cold conscious face. Then he 
threw the newspaper to the floor and, turning, 
pressed his head into the pillow. 



X 


A pallid light filtered into the court from heavy 
turbulent clouds. Spreading down over stone and 
glass in the chasm of commerce, it spent itself above 
the window where Daniel sat, tapping his pencil on 
the desk and musing, his eyes upturned to the gray 
oblong of winter sadness. Cold stone and a sky as 
sodden as my heart. A fitting setting for a bare 
life. Never care for anything you may lose. Never 
care for anything- 

“Is that all, Mr. Geer?” 

“I don’t know. I suppose so.” 

Miss Elliot closed her notebook and pushed back 
her chair. It made a grating sound on the concrete 
floor, the usual suggestion of her departure. But 
she did not go and presently Daniel turned to ques¬ 
tion her hesitation. She was looking at the floor 
beyond him, she saw, and knew at once that her curi¬ 
osity would not be secured by her pride. He wanted 
to smile in her interest but his cheeks were set and 
stiff and it would have seemed like tearing apart a 
mould of plaster. 

Her eyes sprang to his face and ran over it in 
anxious scrutiny. “Are you—going away?” 

“No.” 

“But your bags there?” 

“I’m moving.” 

324 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


325 


“Oh.” She looked down in a hesitant glance at 
his tapping pencil. “Excuse me for asking. But 
you look so—so-” 

“Yes, I know. I look like hell. No sleep last 
night.” 

Her body moved toward him in candid admission 
of interest. “Oh, that’s too bad! Were you sick?” 

He saw from heavy-lidded eyes that she was melt¬ 
ing with sympathy. Her lips were moist and parted, 
her nostrils dilated as she breathed. Her eyes, 
hazel and opened wide, were shining with shy 
gratitude for his meager confidences. She wore a 
new pink sweater and its color moved up into her 
neck and cheeks. Something soft and mobile was 
acting in her face and its young contours flowed with 
eagerness. 

“No—not sick. Just—oh, well. It doesn’t 
matter.” He went on staring at her. “Say—what 
have you been doing to yourself?” 

She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I guess 
you mean my hair. It’s cut.” She bent her neck 
and shook out her hair over his desk. He began to 
breathe the faint scent of roses. Under the electric 
light her thick hair, separating into strands, shone 
in rich autumnal shades—cinnamon, russet and 
chestnut brown, fawn color at the pointed nape 
where the shortest hair was like fur, and citron-yel¬ 
low where the glints were brightest. “No more pins 
and nets. My sister said I looked like a school 
teacher in those nets. I guess I did.” She put up 



326 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

her head and smiled in shy triumph. “I didn’t 
think you’d notice.’' She patted her head into order 
and looked down at him with questions in the back¬ 
ground of her eyes. 

“I like it like that. But the nets were better for 
the—well, for my Draconian discipline.” 

The telephone rang and he answered mechanically. 

“Daniel!” Amy’s voice, metallic, uneasy, im¬ 
plored him, thinly, over the wires. “The baby seems 
quite ill. I’ve sent for the doctor. I’m—I’m fright¬ 
ened, Daniel. Can you come?” 

His eyes tightened. He set his jaw. “Didn’t you 
understand me last night ? I won’t be back. That’s 
final.” 

“But, Daniel-” 

“Goodbye.” He set the receiver back on the hook 
and pushed the instrument from him. Her voice 
went on speaking in his ear. “I’m frightened, Daniel 
I’m frightened, Daniel.” His worn face twisted 
with pain. 

“Oh,” said Miss Elliot. She took a hesitant step 
away and paused. 

Turning his head, he gave her his full gaze for 
a moment and her young ardent warmth entered 
him painfully. “See here,” he said. “That was 
my wife. I—I’ve left her.” 

Miss Elliot’s face paled and elongated, coming 
forward toward his in the fascination of astonish¬ 
ment. Again he smelled the perfume of roses. 
“You’ve left your wife?” 



THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


327 


He freed his muscles abruptly and pushed hard 
against his chair. “Yes. I packed and left. Noth¬ 
ing else to do. God, there’s a limit to what a man 
can stand!” He hunched his shoulders and pushed 
his hands into his pockets. His bloodshot eyes 
touched desk, window, floor, ceiling, and came 
back to her shocked and waiting face. 

“What did she do, Mr. Geer?” 

“Huh! You want to know what she did, eh? 
Enough. E —nough.” Tears started into his eyes. 
His thin mouth began to quiver at the corners. 
“Just was in love with another man. That’s all. 
I suppose that’s enough.” He twisted toward her, 
snatched a hand from his pocket and pulled at his 
necktie. “I thought it was all over and that she’d 
forgotten him. Like hell she had. As soon as he 
came back from Paris—” He sniffed and, putting 
out his hand, shook his finger at her across the edge 
of the desk. “Listen. What do you think of this? 
She left her sick baby and went out to meet him!” 
He saw her face floating and wavering beyond his 
tears. He searched it with devouring eyes, feeding 
upon her incredulous horror. His chin began to 
shake and he drew sharp breaths through his 
nostrils. “Can’t believe it, can you? Well, that’s 
just what she did. When I got home last night she 
wasn’t in. No message left for me. I went down and 
waited. You see, I knew he was back in New York. 
One o’clock came. She drove up in a taxi. I asked 
her where she had been. I suppose I was a little 


328 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


rough and excited. Guess what she said to me—I’d 
been waiting an hour in the cold. Of course, you 
don’t know how she talks. ‘Daniel, please wait 
until we get into the house. And do pay my taxi. 
I’ve lost my purse.’ How’s that for nerve! Coming 
home from him! Well, I followed her in and she 
gave me a preposterous story about having seen a 
woman friend—you wouldn’t have offered such a lie 
to a child. I told her—well, what I thought of her 
and packed my bags. She can go to him now. I’m 
through!” He clamped his hand on the edge of 
the desk and pulled himself forward on his chair. 
He set his teeth into his lower lip, then after a pause 
burst out. “I got all I can stand. I got a belly full 
when I married her. Cold-blooded leech, that’s all 
she is. I never was handsome like—some other men. 
She knew she wasn’t getting an Adonis. She took 
me for a meal ticket. Well, that’s what I’ve been 
for her.” He sneered with a trembling mouth and 
thumped the desk with his fist. “Just a boob—and 
everybody knows it.” 

Miss Elliot bent over him and placed a hot 
hand on his knuckles. “No, you’re not. You’re 
wonderful. Everyone here thinks you’re wonder¬ 
ful.” 

He sneered again. “A lot they know about me!” 
He drew his hand from under hers and placed her 
fingers lightly on his palm. “Only you, Miss—” 
He glanced up. “Curious. I don’t know your first 
name.” 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


329 


“It’s Rose.” There were tears in her eyes. She 
left her hand in his and he felt her fingers vibrating 
against his palm. 

“That’s why you always smell of roses. You’re 
very sweet, Rose. I depend on you somehow. Do 
you remember the night I asked you to have dinner ? 
You were angry with me for a long time.” 

She met his eyes in a direct child-like confidence. 
“Oh, yes. I cried all night—often I did.” 

“I’m sorry.” He carried her hand to his cheek, 
“Forgive me. I’ve thought always of my own 
troubles. I’ve been selfish. I don’t dare ask you 
again, do I? You might say no.” 

Pressing his palm with her finger-tips, she gave 
him a swift glance of reassurance. “Oh, I’d never 
say no to you—no matter what you asked me!” she 
cried. Her eyes glinted, glad and wet, and excited 
blood flashed up in her cheeks. She bent her head. 

The telephone rang again. As he lifted the 
receiver, Miss Elliot clutched his shoulder and put 
her face to his. She kissed him—a hard kiss of 
hope long repressed, now ready again to leap out in 
expectations. 

He caught her about the waist. “Rose—I—” She 
twisted away and ran to the door. Half smiling, 
he turned to the telephone. “Yes?” 

The operator spoke. “Miss Corning on the wire.” 

“No.” He clipped back the receiver. I know 
what she wants. I’ll have no intermediaries. The 
sooner it’s all rooted up, the better. I’ve been a 


330 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


weakling long enough. I can’t live on, tortured by 
superiority and deceptions. Rose is the girl for me. 
My God, I’ll divorce Amy and marry little Rose. A 
sweet, comforting Rose for the rest of my life. She 
doesn’t excite me or stir my imagination. No 
gimbal for the emotions needed with her. Balm and 
comfort. Something within my reach this time. 
I’ll be happier that way. She’ll look up to me and 
admire in me the things that Amy despises. I must 
have acted like a madman last night. Everything 
poisonous spurted out of me. Poor mother outside 
the door in terror. I might have strangled her if 
mother hadn’t been there. Her throat, choked with 
lies, tempted my hands. “I haven’t seen him, 
Daniel!” Liar! She was hot from his arms. Her 
mouth was swollen from his kisses. I’ve paid well 
for every kiss she ever gave me, damn her! 

He jerked out a drawer of the desk. On the top 
of some papers lay Amy’s photograph. He held 
it up to the light and gazed with eyes of stone. 
The uxorial Mona Lisa. Her lips curl about the 
secretive wraiths of her thoughts. Her eyes hold 
the shadows of the nets she has cast. A slimy soul, 
bent on a mastic festival, ravenous, inexorable. 
Hell. She doesn’t merit such highfalutin treatment. 
She’s just an up-to-date cheat—a prostitute walking 
her beat under the protection of marriage. 

Holding the picture firmly between palms and 
finger-tips, he tore it across and dropped the two 
parts into the basket at his feet. 


XI 


He was deep in the daily conference with Trainer 
when an office boy brought in Miss Coming’s card, 
enclosed in an envelope. Across her name was writ¬ 
ten, “I must see you. If you are not free, I shall 
wait. The baby died an hour ago and Amy is 
prostrated.” 

He read this twice and turned weakly to Trainer. 
“Finish up outside, will you? I’ll see you before you 
go to dinner.” 

Trainer gathered up papers and clippings, his 
eyebrows two black arcs. “Well, now, about that 
cartoon-” 

“Yes, I guess so.” Daniel’s eyes, dull and empty, 
passed over Trainer’s coatless shoulders and jutting 
paunch. Trainer shook a puzzled head and went 
away, plump and ambling. 

Miss Corning marched in as stiff as a marionette. 
Daniel stumbled to his feet and bowed. He pulled 
back the chair Trainer had occupied and waited 
until she sat down in it. Then he slumped into his 
own and averted his vacant pale face. 

Sitting stiffly upright, she began speaking at once, 
somewhat quickly and in a formal tone. “Please 
don’t tell me your side. I know it already. What 


33i 



332 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


you must know is that she told you the truth about 
last night. She was with me. You were wrong.” 

He looked up slowly with the shadow of a sneer. 
“Oh, yes. I’m always wrong. She always puts 
me in the wrong. But I know I’m right. I know 
she’s in love with Harrington. Well,” he added, 
his voice rising, “She can have him now!” 

Her expression remained impersonal. In the dry 
explanatory voice of the lecture platform she went 
on. “She was. But not now. She hasn’t seen him. 
She has no idea of seeing him. As a matter of 
fact, he goes to China next week with his wife for 
a year’s trip.” She waited, studying him with 
friendly determined eyes. “You know, I’m very 
fond of Amy. I want her happiness. And I think 
you can make her happy.” 

Daniel, crumpled in his chair, gazed at her with 
eyes that were suspicious and filled with memories 
of his pain. “She’s treated me shamefully. She’s 
cheated me. And yet for nearly a year I’ve been a 
slave to her. I can’t stand any more, Miss Corning.” 

She leaned toward him and put her narrow hand 
on his arm. “She needs you, Daniel Geer. She sent 
me to tell you she wants you to come home. She’s 
lying on her bed with the baby, kissing its hands 
and crying desperately. The last thing she said to 
me was ‘Elizabeth, I want Daniel. Please ask 
him to come home.’ ” 

His face contracted as his heart began to jump 
in hot spurts. At her words, “I want Daniel,” he 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


333 


had felt suddenly rent—as if his vitals had been 
pushed aside until his ribs had cracked apart. Then 
the joy went out of his eyes and they drooped, 
again apathetic as his reason gibed. Only a tale to 
fetch me back. Why should she turn to me ? She 
doesn’t love me. I’m only a stop-gap. She hasn’t 
anyone else. Grief may perform miracles but not 
that of her loving me. Impossible. Yet last night 
she denied with tears. For the first time she cared 
enough to deny an accusation. My injustice drove 
her into speech. Under other charges she has always 
wilted into silence. They were the true ones, be¬ 
longing to Harrington’s time. Now that she’s 
forgotten him, I have the power to flick her. The 
beginning perhaps. But a beginning begun too late. 
I see her now too clearly to go back. Disillusion is 
no flavoring for love. It makes of marriage an 
uncertain feast. And that little barrier of flesh, now 
dead, of which I should always think with a question 
for her, “Mine or his?” 

He raised a devastated face. “Tell her I can’t, 
Miss Corning. I’m disillusioned. I realize she 
could never care for me.” 

She looked at him with bright penetrating eyes. 
“There’s no one but you in her life, Daniel. Come 
back with me now and see how she’ll cling to you!” 

Again his heart leaped as he received the picture 
of a soft and clinging Amy, drenched in grief, 
changed by misfortune. My longing for her rises 
in me as strong as a tower and is the core of my 


334 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


body. I feel pangs of pity for her motherhood and 
am beaten with the demands of a love that has never 
been satisfied or killed. A clinging Amy. A new 
soft Amy who has turned to me in her despair and 
even now is waiting for the door to open. For the 
first time, she is watching for my coming. I feel 
already her long white hands about my neck. I 
see the finely-drawn red, red mouth, bitter with 
tears, hoping for my comfort. Her eyes will not 
drop away from mine in preoccupation, the child 
needing her no longer. Her loss is my golden gain. 
Her grief is a gift to me. Its death might make 
it possible for us to start again. No. That is only 
weak complaisance. What a weakling I am! 
Can’t fight free of a woman who has deceived me. 
I’ll tell her no once and for all! 

He raised his eyes and glared at Miss Corning. 
She had turned her head and was dreaming out of 
the window, her face pinched and sad, her sensitive 
mouth telling of a life of mental pleasures and stern 
denials of the flesh. She doesn’t understand my 
emotions. They are like theorems to her. Can’t 
discuss my future with her. What will a future be 
without Amy—with only a sentimental Rose for 
my buttonhole? The years roll on before me like 
a strip of carpet, dull and dusty. Stupid hours of 
being worshipped and bored—perhaps cooked for 
and mended for in a cloud of the incense I have 
always burned to Amy. I should sit in superiority 
like the traditional husband while my wife busied 


THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 


335 


herself for me with a sweet eager face. And all 
the time I should be brooding over Amy’s delicate 
lost subtleties—her charming sophistication—her 
cultured speech and background. I should be re¬ 
membering the delicious fripperies that surround 
her, the perfumed and mysterious cult of chiffon 
and silk. Well, her garments smell as sweet and 
feel as soft to a disillusioned man as to the confident 
fool I was. 

Miss Corning moved in her chair. “You’d better 
decide to come with me,” she said. “For your own 
happiness—and Amy’s. She’s waiting for you.” 

He met her eyes. Amy is waiting. Amy is wait¬ 
ing. Perhaps not with love. But with helplessness, 
remorse and gratitude for my coming. One thing 
is sure, by God! I’ll know the next baby is mine! 

“Well?” Miss Corning smiled at him—a tight 
dry spinster smile. “Good. I have the car down 
stairs.” 

He got up, his blood tumbling and rushing. It 
tingled on all the surfaces of his body. He put on 
his overcoat and flung his scarf about his neck. 
They walked out of his office and through the city 
room to the outer door. 

Miss Elliot was coming in. With an intimate 
shy glance she stopped in front of him. He drew 
a long breath. The violent smell of fresh ink came to 
him, rising up hot from the steps to the composing 
room and mingling with the odor of roses from her 
hair. What an escape! Just a pretty shallow girl 


336 THE UNCERTAIN FEAST 

whose mind is filled with sentimental nonsense. I 
must have been deranged, thinking I could live 
with her. It’s Amy I want, the beautiful and in¬ 
tangible. 

“I’ll leave your letters on your desk,” Miss Elliot 
said. Her voice was soft and her mouth swelled 
out at him. 

He returned her look with indifference, his 
thoughts already leaping ahead to the long ride home 
through traffic-heavy streets, upon which he would 
look out, thinking how in spite of disenchantment 
he must go on to the uncertain feast, sad and happy, 
triumphant and beaten. 

“Never mind them, Miss Elliot. I shan’t be back 
tonight.” 

He watched her eyes spring wide, dismayed and 
filled with fear. He swung on, then, hurrying to 
catch up with Miss Corning, already on her way 
down the long corridor. 

THE END 


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